


The Magicians' Child

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fillory (The Magicians), M/M, Mpreg, Multiple Universes Colliding, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 17:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 50,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21674197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: As Fillory prepares to celebrate the birth of a royal baby, the first child of earth to ever be birthed at Whitespire, dark forces gather to plot the child’s abduction and sacrifice. Can the royal family and their friends prevent this from happening, or will the baby be lost forever to the evil machinations of their enemies?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 15
Kudos: 67





	1. Part One: Fillory, Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for NaNoWriMo! I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun and because even after seven months, I can’t let Quentin and Eliot go. Thanks to Machtaholic and DreamWvr73 for their sharp eyes with this monster! Additional thanks to Jason Ralph and Hale Appleman, whose performances as Quentin and Eliot will always inspire me. Comments and kudos are magic and as always, enjoy!

Part One: Fillory, Chapter One

Eliot Waugh, high king of Fillory, felt that the whole of his land held its collective breath twice a day: at the moment the sun’s daily eclipse darkened the land for the space of 120 seconds and just before sunrise, when the sky traded its purple pre-dawn cloak for one of peach and rose. Eliot liked that moment best. Sure, the daily eclipse was a breathtaking sight and most Fillorians paused in their daily doings out of reverence to their gods, but the clatter and chatter of Castle Whitespire resumed once the sun reappeared. All but the earliest of risers--the stablehands, the torch-minders--were still asleep as the sky turned that sweet color that always reminded Eliot of the creamsicles his mother would buy him at the grocer’s in town, the shade that was so difficult to recreate in fabrics and paintings. 

Of course, there was another reason to appreciate the rising of the dawn, and that was to watch its light play across Quentin Coldwater’s face as he slept, his bare limbs entangled in Eliot’s, the sun teasing glints of copper, blond, and russet from his long, tawny hair and making his long eyelashes wink with those colors as well. Sunrise spread along his smooth cheeks and brow, almost always furrowed in thought, worry, or casting but untroubled in sleep, reminding Eliot that King Quentin of Fillory, his husband and the other half of his soul, had yet to see his 25th birthday. 

It was easy to forget, really; he and Quentin had endured so much pain, loss, and terror over the last 15 months that it seemed like they’d lived several lifetimes together and gained the emotional maturity that came with them. Eliot couldn’t say if he appreciated the fast track to adulthood that magic had provided, but it had brought Quentin into his life, bed, and heart, which he knew was worth every moment of grief and pain he’d experienced. He couldn’t say if Quentin felt the same, as his mental tics brought his grief into ultra-sharp focus and narrowed in until he existed in the eye of its hurricane. Losing Alice had been the hardest, as he’d done so twice--first when she’d gone niffin and Quentin had released his cacodemon on her to protect him and Margo, and then just a few weeks later, when he’d given her permanent freedom from the tattoo his cacodemon had recently vacated. Eliot remembered how Quentin had returned to Whitespire, his back scored red by Alice’s exit, his face streaked with tears. 

“She’s gone El . . . she’s gone and I don’t know if she’ll ever show herself to me again, here or on earth. I never meant to hurt her--” Quentin had shuddered with fresh sobs then and allowed Eliot to lead him to his royal bedroom, opulent and draped in silks and velvets. He’d wrapped Quentin in a soft blanket and sat with him on the room’s spacious tangerine couch, rubbing his back and offering whatever comfort he could. Once Quentin had spent his tears and fallen into a twitchy, fitful slumber, Eliot eased him down onto his side and removed his boots before covering him with an extra blanket to ward off the chill; most evenings in Fillory carried a consistent breeze that made the castle prone to drafts. He’d retired to his own bed shortly after, not wanting Quentin to overthink his presence. 

It was still fully dark when Eliot awoke to his mattress tilting and a warm, naked body pressing close against his back. Eliot froze, contemplating his next move for nearly a minute before Quentin spoke. 

“El?” 

“I’m here, Quentin.” 

A pause, then Quentin’s lips seared the back of his neck, his shoulders. Bare arms groped for him in the darkness. 

“Then love me. Love me, Eliot, please . . . “ 

“I do love you.” Eliot rolled over to face the younger magician despite the lack of light in the room. Quentin’s mouth, clumsy and tasting like tears, met his and Eliot slipped his arms around Quentin, loving him in a way that he’d done before on earth, but that memory was incomplete, the edges and sensations eaten away by booze and emotion magic. 

“Love me,” Quentin groaned in his ear, and Eliot’s hands hesitated. 

“I know.” Quentin’s hands found Eliot’s face in the darkness. Cupped it. “I know, but that’s not what this is. It’s not about her. It’s about you, it always has been, El, even when I was too scared to accept it, El, please . . .” 

And so Eliot had hushed him, his heart light, kisses claiming Quentin’s lips, throat, his delicate nipples, erect and blushing pink, like the inner curve of a seashell. The sun rose to Quentins soft cries of pleasure as Eliot had entered him and later, as the younger man lay asleep in his arms, smiling, sticky and perfumed with the scent of their joining, Eliot knew he wanted no one else, ever again. 

“Ummmmhh,” Quentin sighed against Eliot’s bare chest, bringing him back to the present. He stroked a hand through Quentin’s hair, the ends of which hung down to his shoulder blades. He sometimes let Eliot braid it with gold filigree. 

“Good morning,” Eliot whispered in Quentin’s ear, making him nestle under the dark blue duvet. 

“No morning.” He pulled the duvet over his head. 

“Yes morning, my little king.” 

“Too early,” the lump muttered, and Eliot peeled one corner of the duvet aside, One dark eye peered up at him. 

“Can’t you go bug Margo?” 

“This early? I would be courting death.” 

“But it’s okay to harass me at the crack of dawn?” 

“Of course! You’re my husband.” Eliot tossed the covers to one side and tucked his feet into a pair of lamb’s wool slippers before rising and pulling on a robe. “Thou shalt love, honor, and harass him.” 

“That’s love, honor, and obey!” Quentin countered. 

“Obey? But Q darling, I’m a top!” 

“Oh Jesus,” Quentin groaned, groping for the blankets, but Eliot tugged them out of his reach. 

“Come on, Q. I’ll have Tick draw you a bath and I’ll wash your hair for you. We’ll even put lavender oil in the water.” He tugged his reluctant partner to his feet. Quentin leaned against his chest. 

“Can’t someone else run Fillory today?” 

Eliot slipped a gentle hand under Quentin’s chin and lifted it to kiss him on the lips. 

“I’m afraid not. Come on, our kingdom awaits.” 

Twenty minutes later, after settling Quentin into the tub, Eliot returned to their bedroom to hunt for a bottle of conditioner he’d paid Penny to bring back from a previous trip to earth. With the Beast defeated by Alice and the Leo Blade entrusted to Fen and her family, traveling had been easier for Penny and allowed the royal family to enjoy a few comforts of home that Fillory couldn’t offer. 

“Your grace?” Tick inquired from the doorway, and Eliot glanced up. 

“Hmm?” 

“King Quentin has said he cannot abide his bath.” 

“He what?” 

“Cannot abide it,” Tick repeated with his usual mix of patience and mild puzzlement at the ways of Children of Earth. Eliot frowned, so Tick pressed on, “Forgive me, your highness, but King Quentin’s actual words--” 

“Tick! What did he say?” 

“I believe it was, ‘I have to get out of this fucking tub before I puke.’” Tick’s smile faltered. “He then made a rather quick exit to the--what do you earthers call it? The toy-let?” 

“I’ll check on him.” Eliot passed the conditioner to Tick before heading toward the facilities magic had allowed them to install. There were some elements of medieval living he, Quentin, and Margo could cope with, but chamber pots were not among them. Whitespire was now equipped with rudimentary but functional plumbing as a result. Eliot knocked on the wooden door. 

“Q? Are you in there? What’s going on?” 

A retching noise answered Eliot and he winced. “Jesus, are you okay?” 

The chain pull on the toilet rattled and the unit flushed before Quentin opened the door, clad in a towel, the corners of his eyes moist. 

“No,” he croaked, and Eliot put an arm around him. 

“What happened?” 

“The tub water . . . the smell made me sick to my stomach.” 

“But you like lavender oil.” 

“I know. I must have a stomach bug or something.” 

“Maybe we should take you to see Thaderos.” 

“He’s so stern,” Quentin frowned. 

“Of course he is, he’s a centaur.” 

“I don’t think I need a doctor, El. I feel better already, so I must have sicked up whatever it was.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Quentin nodded. 

“I guess I’m still getting used to Fillorian food,” He adjusted the towel around his lean hips. Eliot watched him for a moment. 

“All right, but if you start to feel sick again--” 

Quentin held up a hand. 

“I’ll go see Thaderos, I promise.” 

After a fresh bath  _ sans  _ lavender, Quentin met the other royals in the dining hall for breakfast. Tick and his people flowed in and out of the hall, leaving platters of food and whisking away empty plates. One of the servers set down a poached quail’s egg and a helping of steamed smelt in front of Quentin, who cleared his throat and pushed the plate aside. 

“Could you maybe just bring me some porridge instead, please?” 

“Of course, sire.” The server took the plate away. Margo, who was cracking open her own egg, glanced over. 

“What’s wrong, Q? You look a little green.” 

“Just a stomach bug or something. I’m okay.” He took a sip of fruit juice. Eliot consulted their calendar with Tick as he nibbled a pastry. 

“We have a meeting with the printer’s guild after breakfast, and then an audience with Fen, the knifemaker’s daughter, for further information on the Leo Blade and how it might be used to protect Fillory in the future.” Tick turned a page and pointed, helping Eliot keep his place. “The talking horse herd representative says grazing is scarce in the southern meadows and wants permission to move west . . .” Eliot glance up as one of the servers brought Quentin his porridge and a chunk of fresh maple to melt in it. 

“That would bring them close to some farmland on the outer edges of the village, and the farmers and the herds aren’t exactly famous for getting along,” Margo put in. But I’ll see if Julia and I can work something out.” 

“I can give audience to Fen if Q meets with the printer’s guild. That should leave us with some of our afternoon free. Quentin? What do you think?” 

“Sure,” Quentin shrugged as he stirred the maple into his porridge and ate a few bites. 

“Very good.” Eliot signed off on the schedule with a feather pen Tick handed him. “We’ll meet in my common room for a follow up after the eclipse.” Eliot rapped his knuckles on the table and Tick and his people bustled off to their mid-morning duties. Eliot rose and paused to kiss Margo’s cheek before moving to Quentin. “Don’t spend too much time at the guild, all right? I know you lose track of time trying to get them to understand the concept of books and newspapers.” He kissed Quentin’s lips and then licked his own. “Mmmm! Maple.” Quentin ducked a ruffle to his hair as Eliot gave him a wink and left the dining hall. 

The daily eclipse came and went, and as the sun reappeared, Margo and Eliot found themselves waiting for Quentin to join them in the common room. Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty. Finally, Margo scowled and yanked the door open. 

“This is why we don’t send Quentin to the print shop--” She blinked as she found Tick on the other side of the door, poised to knock. “What?” She snapped, and Tick offered her a bow. 

“Forgive the intrusion, your majesty, but I’ve had a note from the print shop.” 

“Is it from King Quentin?” Eliot asked, and Tick shook his head as he handed the paper over. 

“It is about him, your grace. It seems that he never arrived for the scheduled meeting.” 

“Shit!” “Eliot scanned the note.” You mean he’s missing?” 

“I cannot say, sire.” Tick fidgeted. “All we know is that he never arrived at the print shop.” 

Eliot leapt from his chair like an angry stag. 

“Tick, have the guards stand by.” He motioned for Margo to follow but barely glanced back, his bootheels rapping on the stone floor as he hurried for their bedchamber. 

“El, wait! Goddamn it, will you slow down?” She jogged a few steps and grabbed at his arm. “He might have stopped off somewhere in the village and lost track of time, that’s all! You know how he can be!” 

“Except he was sick this morning. What if he got dizzy on his way there and fell off his horse? He could be lying somewhere unconscious!” Eliot thrust the bedroom doors open, sweeping the room with an anxious air, and then his heart flooded with relief as he saw Quentin sprawled across their bed on top of the duvet, asleep. Margo frowned and put her hands on her hips. 

“Oh, he’s lying somewhere unconscious, all right!” She drawled, and Eliot put a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. 

“Q? Hey!” He gave the younger man a brief shake and he blinked awake all at once, his dark eyes unfocused. 

“Uh? What?” He sat up and Eliot put his hands on Quentin’s shoulders. 

“Have you been here asleep all this time?” 

“All what time?” Quentin rubbed his eyes. “I was just resting my eyes for a few minutes before my meeting.” He glanced around for his messenger bag, still packed and waiting at the bed’s footrest. 

“You missed your meeting by about two hours,” Margo said, and Quentin stared at her. 

“I what? No, that’s--what time is it?” 

“Nearly an hour after the noon eclipse,” Eliot replied, reaching out to smooth Quentin’s hair back. “The printer’s guild sent word that you never showed.” 

“Shit.” Quentin’s gaze dropped to his feet. “I’m sorry, you guys. I just wanted to close my eyes for a few minutes before I left.” 

“This definitely settles it,” Eliot replied. “I’m taking you to see Thaderos.” 

“Because I took an unscheduled nap?” Quentin frowned. 

“Because you’re not yourself, Q! I want you to have a checkup.” 

“El--” 

“Humor me?” Eliot asked. Quentin stole a glance at Margo, who thinned her lips in response. 

“Fine,” Quentin sighed. “But I can tell you right now there’s nothing wrong with me!” 

Eliot tugged his husband to his feet. 

“I’ll feel better when Thaderos tells me that.” 

  
  


***

“It’s freezing in here!” 

Eliot turned from his perusal of an anatomical sketch of the human skeleton, displayed with other studies by their resident centaur physician, to regard Quentin’s hunched form on the nearby marble exam table. It was covered with a thin sheet of muslin, and Quentin sat clad only in his boxers, his arms folded across his chest. Eliot went to him. 

“We’ll be done soon, Q.” 

“We? Did Thaderos take blood and urine samples from ‘we?’ Did ‘we’ have to answer over a dozen embarrassing medical questions, including ones about--” Quentin gestured toward his lap--”our . . . bedroom stuff?” 

“No, I suppose not.” Eliot took Quentin’s right hand, kissed it. “But Thaderos is thorough if nothing else and we’re lucky he agreed to reside at Whitespire instead of at the healing meadow, which is four days’ ride from here. Try and be patient, honeylove.” 

The steady ring of hooves sounded outside the door a moment later and Thaderos strode into the examination room. He was an impressive and muscular blue roan with a silvery tail and long, curly hair to match, which he wore braided. His large, dark eyes flicked over Quentin as he shuffled some papers and his tail twitched back and forth. 

“Your majesties,” he began in a deep, even tone, “I have completed my examination.” 

“So it’s just a virus or something, right?” Quentin asked, and the centaur hesitated. 

“I ran my medical spells several times to ensure the results read correctly. They--they are rather shocking, to say the least.” 

“Shocking?” Eliot asked. “In what way?” 

The centaur shifted his weight and his tail flicked over his broad haunches. 

“His highness King Quentin is with child.” 

Quentin stared at the doctor and then gave a short bark of laughter edged with disbelief. 

“I didn’t know centaurs had a sense of humor!” 

“This is not an attempt at humor,” Thaderos replied. Eliot stared at him. 

“I don’t--he--but you can’t be serious. You say you’ve studied human anatomy, so you must know that the men of our species aren’t capable of pregnancy. It’s impossible, Thaderos!” 

“His Majesty must understand that this is Fillory, a land of magic where the impossible often becomes reality. The air we breathe is filled with magic, and as Children of Earth who wield spells as easily as others fill a drinking glass with water from a well, its forces become a part of you.” 

“El?” Quentin’s hand groped for Eliot’s and gripped it. Eliot squeezed the trembling hand. 

“Don’t, Q. It’s all right . . . it’s gonna be fine.” Eliot said, even though the joints in his knees felt like they’d been replaced with overcooked pasta. “Okay, so . . . let’s say your diagnosis is right-” Thaderos gave an offended snort and Eliot held up a hand. “Just as a hypothetical. If you’re right, how the hell did this happen? King Quentin doesn’t have the--” He gestured toward Quentin’s abdomen. “The proper equipment!” 

“My examination shows that his majesty has grown several extra organs within his abdomen. One is a membranous sac . . . a womb, if you will. The other seems to be the early stages of the placenta growth, which will continue to grow to support the embryo.” 

“Embryo?” Quentin whispered, and Thaderos nodded. 

“It is a tiny being right now, your majesty, about the size of a seed or small bean pod.” Thaderos held his fingers less than an inch apart. “But the tests I ran did detect a heartbeat. It is no prank or trick, your Highness,” the doctor said to Eliot. “King Quentin is pregnant. I surmise you are the father?” 

“I. I, uh . . .” Eliot glanced at his husband, whose complexion had turned an odd, cheesy color. “Well I . . . if what you say is true, then . . . y-yes, Quentin and I don’t . . . see other people.” 

“Then you are to be congratulated, your highness.” Thaderos took an instrument that resembled a slim gramophone horn with attached tubing and used it to listen to Quentin’s heartbeat. “It seems Fillory will soon welcome the first Child of Earth to be born under its glorious sky!” 

Quentin turned his head and vomited. Eliot winced and squeezed his hand as Thaderos patiently passed the young magician a plastic pan to catch the rest. 


	2. Part One, Fillory: Chapter 2

_ Six Months Later  _

“I have to say, Bambi, sometimes it’s good to be the king.” 

A dozen of Whitespire’s finest carpenters and painters bustled in and out of the room adjacent to the royal bedroom, which was now directly attached to it via a set of sky-blue double doors. Margo watched as a few men carried some lumber into the room. Four seamstresses worked in one corner, sewing curtains and blankets for the growing nursery. Margo touched a painted nail to her lower lip in thought. 

“While I don’t deny that, O king, wouldn’t this all be simpler to accomplish with magic?” 

“Probably, but what the hell. I figure it’ll make Q happy. This whole thing has been rough on him.” 

“If his belly wasn’t looking like he swallowed a fully-inflated beach ball, I still might not believe it,” Margo sighed and looked up at her closest friend. “You’re going to be a father, El. Aren’t you terrified?” 

“Probably.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

“It means that on the day Thaderos told us that Quentin was pregnant, I decided to focus all my energy on making sure his health and the health of the baby are my top priorities. Am I worried about what kind of father I’ll be? Of course--I had a shitty example in my own dad. But Quentin is my husband and he needs my love and support, so I really can’t worry about that right now.” 

A slow smile spread over Margo’s face. 

“I don’t want to alarm you or anything El, but you sound like a grownup.” 

“That is alarming, isn’t it.” He smiled and slipped a long arm around her shoulders. “But I suppose it had to happen sometime.” 

“El?” 

Eliot and Margo turned at the call. Quentin was waddling down the hallway toward them, dressed in black slacks with an elastic waistband and a billowing white pullover shirt. His long hair spilled loose over both shoulders, and his belly, already round at just seven months along, swayed slightly as he approached. Eliot felt his chest warm at the sight. 

“Hey,” he replied, holding out both hands. Quentin took them as he reached the pair, wheezing a bit at the extra weight he carried. “Did you do your exercises?” 

“Yeah, but they’re getting harder.” Quentin dropped one of Eliot’s hands to run it over his belly. “Are we sure about the due date?” 

“You still have two months to go, my Little King.” Eliot dropped a kiss onto the top of Quentin’s tawny head. Quentin groaned. 

“But--” 

“Q, relax,” Eliot smiled. “You just had a checkup with Thaderos and he says everything looks like it’s progressing normally.” 

“If you can call this normal,” Quentin sighed, looking down at himself. “Which really, can you?” 

“Has anything been normal since you first set foot in Brakebills?” Margo asked. “Or here in Fillory? Come on, Q, ‘normal’ pretty much got chucked out the fucking door since you left Brooklyn!” 

“I know,” Quentin muttered. “It’s just--this kind of not normal is the last thing I ever expected.” 

Eliot caught the anxiety in his partner’s tone and understood his fears. After all, he was the first pregnant human male in Fillory’s long history and somewhat of a medical anomaly. Some of Thaderos’ peers had traveled from the healing meadows to observe Quentin once he’d started to show, but Eliot had refused to allow his husband to become a sideshow attraction. The castle’s rumor mill was something Eliot couldn’t control, though, so most of the village knew about the pregnancy. 

“Maybe it’s not,” Eliot nodded as he put an arm around Quentin. “But it’s our child, Q.” 

“And my godchild!” Margo spoke up, giving Quentin a poke in the shoulder. “So nut up, Coldwater.” 

Quentin gave them both a wan smile. 

“All right, I hear you.” 

“Good! Now let’s go look at the nursery. It’s almost done.” Eliot led Quentin into the room, where their people worked busily. They stopped to bow when they saw the royals but Eliot waved a hand. “It’s all right, keep working, I’m still king, whether you bow or not.” He said as he and Quentin inspected the crib their carpenters had built. Quentin put a hand on the collapsable railing. Eliot glanced at him. 

“Q? Are you all right, sweetie?” 

“Yeah.” He looked up at Eliot. “Did I ever tell you why my parents divorced?” 

“You mentioned once they grew apart.” 

“Yeah, they did. But it wasn’t like, work or an affair or anything.” He paused. “My mother had a miscarriage when I was seven.” 

“Oh.” Eliot blinked. “I’m sorry, Q.” 

“Yeah,” the younger magician nodded as he gazed into the empty crib. “I remember them telling me I was going to be a big brother, and around the end of her first trimester, my mom started buying stuff for the baby . . . blankets, little outfits, and my dad went to our storage space to get my old crib. He set it up in our spare room and about a week later, my mom started spotting and . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “She miscarried in the middle of the night just before her first trimester ended. I remember how much she cried. If my dad did, I never saw him. That was the weird thing, you know? Like, she’d be in the bedroom crying or sleeping--she slept a lot after it happened--and my dad would just lock himself in his office and work. It was like there was this division between them. They left everything in the nursery and two years later, when they separated, my dad finally called the Goodwill and had everything hauled off.” Quentin paused. “Mom left the country on a painting sabbatical and I guess there was no question about who I was going to stay with. Dad never talked about the baby . . . it was like it almost never happened.” 

“I’m sorry,” Eliot replied. “Q . . . you’re not worried about us, are you? Or the baby?” 

“I don’t know.” Quentin touched his belly and felt the skin there twitch as the life inside discovered its limbs. “Just . . . El, if something goes wrong, I don’t want you to blame yourself. If I die--” 

“Shut up,” Eliot cut him off. “Don’t talk that way!” 

“But even Thaderos can’t promise--” 

“He can stick his face in a feedbag!” 

“El, that’s racist!” 

Eliot closed his eyes a moment and turned to face his husband. 

“You’re going to be okay, and so is Sebastian.” He put his hand on Quentin’s belly. The younger man blinked. 

“Wait, what? You named the baby?” 

“Well, I know we’ve bandied some names around, but I rather like Sebastian.” 

“But we don’t know if it’s a boy.” 

“I know, Q. Call it a hunch. If you don’t like it--” 

“I do,” Quentin smiled, placing a hand over the one Eliot had resting on his belly. “Can I pick a middle name then?” 

“Sure.” 

“Theodore,” Quentin said almost immediately, and Eliot smiled. 

“After your dad?” 

“I feel like it fits.” 

“Sebastian Theodore Waugh. Prince Sebastian.” Eliot grinned. “It does have a ring to it!” 

“He will be a prince, won’t he,” Quentin nodded. “Because we’re both Children of Earth.” 

“And he’ll be beautiful.” Eliot crouched down to kiss the swell of Quentin’s stomach as Quentin tangled his fingers in Eliot’s dark, wild curls. 

***

  
  


Castle Whitespire held many rooms, but the one that housed the indoor waterfall was Quentin’s favorite. A consistent ribbon of silver water poured in from a natural source near the castle’s peak and down into the room, where the water tumbled into a marble pool that all but filled the space from side to side. The castle’s artisans had carved steps at each end and Whitespire’s living vines rioted down the walls, perfuming the air with their blooms. Tick’s people kept the area stocked with fresh handspun towels, and overstuffed cushions set into wicker boughs provided the ultimate comfort after a swim. 

Quentin had appreciated the room in the past, but since outgrowing his bathtub, he visited nearly every day now for a soak. The churning water eased the aching in his legs and back and the cascade of cool water provided him with a refreshing shower that wasn’t possible otherwise. He’d spent many afternoons during his pregnancy napping on one of the plump cushions after a swim, his hair drying in the sun that spilled through the room’s high windows. He sometimes came with Margo and Eliot and they spent nearly an hour swimming and splashing each other, and sometimes he came alone with Eliot, (the memories of those visits always left Quentin a bit weak in the knees,) but tonight the High King and High Queen were in a meeting with their advisors. Determined to bathe without an escort, Quentin had opened a portal to the waterfall room directly from the bedroom, which also helped him to avoid the several sets of stairs he’d have to climb otherwise. The room was empty and the water inviting, coaxing Quentin out of his clothes. He left them in a pile at the shallow end of the marble pool and navigated the steps, his belly swaying. 

“Ohhhh,” he sighed, the water enveloping him. He swam in a clumsy dog paddle to the waterfall, where he wet his hair. A helpful soaproot vine tumbled down to touch his shoulder and he broke off a piece, massaging the chunk into his hair until it lathered. He tipped his head back and rinsed a moment later, letting the water spill over his head and shoulders until it ran clear. A hunger pang reminded him he’d missed lunch and he considered calling for Tick when a sudden and terrible pain ripped through his right hip. Quentin gasped, and the same sensation sliced through his other hip. He gave a short, sharp cry and moved away from the waterfall to see two long, slithering shapes under the water, their visages partially obscured by his own blood. 

“What the hell, what . . . owww, fuck!” Quentin flailed to the shallow end of the pool and reached for the steps, blood clouding the water more rapidly, before something hot and horrible suctioned onto the small of his back and yanked him back toward the deep end. He paddled wildly as what felt like dozens of sharp teeth sunk into his flesh and dragged him toward the waterfall. He sensed magic, dark and eager, and he flung his hands outward as whatever had hold on him began to drag him under the churning waters beneath the falls. “Tick!” He screamed. “Eliot, Marrr _ bhhhhhlllt! _ ” The word became choked and then incomprehensible as the creatures that had wormed their way into Whitespire took him down through an underwater portal, dark green and pulsating with a terrible kind of magic, and vanished. 

***

  
  


“Gone? What do you mean, gone?” Eliot snapped. Tick inclined his head as he tried to avoid being the subject of High King Eliot’s wrath. 

“I cannot say, your majesty! When I last left him, he was in your bedchambers and when I returned by the by to check on him, he was simply not there! I had my people search the castle but there is simply no sign of King Quentin.” He spread his chubby hands apart. “I do not know what other information I can offer--” 

“Fuck information, Tick! Call out the guards and have them search the perimeter of the castle and the woods beyond!” Eliot’s voice shook as he paced around the royals’ thrones. “He couldn’t have just disappeared!” 

“My Lord!” Wymond, one of Eliot’s royal guards, hurried into the throne room with a bundle in his arms. “I found these at the waterfall pool.” 

Eliot took them and his throat closed with anxiety as he recognized Quentin’s black maternity pants and loose-fitting white shirt. He held them to his nose; they still carried Quentin’s scent and he looked up at the burly guard, whose serious expression gave no further clues. 

“Where in the waterfall pool?” 

“They were folded and sitting on one of the wicker bough cushions, your majesty. But there is something more--my men and I observed that some of the water near the fall itself carried a pinkish hue. We believe it may be blood--” 

The guard got no further. Eliot shoved him aside and raced from the throne room, his booted feet skidding on cobblestone. Margo chased after him. 

“El, wait!” 

“Quentin!” Eliot’s voice echoed back down the hall as he all but vaulted up the steps that led to the waterfall room. He stumbled once, righted himself, cursing, then slammed the doors open. Margo caught up with her friend in time to see him dive into the marble pool fully clothed. 

“Eliot! Jesus, are you crazy?” She paced the pool’s outer edge, searching the churning waters, and then he surfaced, gasping. 

“Quentin!” He called again, the sound echoing off the damp walls. “Quentin where are you?” He ducked his head again, kicking hard to force himself down into the water’s depths, which was well over twenty feet deep at the opposite end. 

“Eliot!” Margo called as she crouched down by the deeper end of the pool, and he emerged a moment later, his hair dripping water into his eyes. He pushed it back, panting, before he swam over to her, agony in his amber eyes. Margo reached out to help him to the edge of the pool. 

“He’s not here, Margo . . . there’s no sign of him!” 

“El, if he’d drowned we’d know, he . . . there would be a body.” 

“What if he went into labor? What if that’s the blood Wymond and his men found? He might have made his way out of the pool and tried to get to Thaderos!” 

“They’ve searched the castle already El, including the halls leading to the medical room. There’s no sign of any blood there or anywhere else. Whatever happened, it had to happen here!” 

Eliot crossed the pool and stumbled out of the pool at the shallow end, gulping in air, his dark blue spangled outfit soaked. He stumbled to a cushion and sat down like all his strength had suddenly bled away and pushed his dripping curls back with both hands. Margo put a hand on one shoulder. 

“El--” 

“I never should have left him alone! I should have posted a guard! I should have had Tick watch over him!” 

“Is that where you want to put your energy right now?” Margo asked, gripping his shoulder. “A bunch of fucking regrets when Quentin still needs our help? He may not be here, but goddamn it, he’s somewhere and we need to find him!” Margo crouched down so she could lift Eliot’s chin. “Look at me, El! If you fucking crumble now then Quentin really is lost! Do you hear me?” 

Eliot closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before opening them again. 

“You’re right. Thank you, Bambi.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Something caught the light at his right ear and Margo frowned as she reached out and plucked something from his hair. 

“What the hell is this?” She frowned, letting the object tumble into her palm. It was slim, curved, and gauzy white under a layer of pink-ivory. Eliot leaned over to examine it. 

“It’s a tooth.” He took it from Margo’s palm and held it up to the light. It glimmered and at the very tip, Eliot could see a single spot of drying blood, smeared into an uneven comma. “Jesus--Margo, look!” He passed it back and got to his feet. “We need to go see Thaderos, he’s got Quentin’s blood type on file and maybe he can tell us more about what we’re dealing with.” 

***

“This tooth is not altogether strange to me, your majesty.” 

_ I’m sorry I said you could stick your face in a feedbag _ , Eliot thought to himself as Thaderos spoke and relief flooded his heart. Quentin had been missing for a little over two hours now, and with no further sign of him at the waterfall, the small, odd-looking tooth was all they had to go on. 

“So you’ve seen it before?” Margo asked, and Thaderos nodded as he took it over to a machine that looked like a large wooden microscope. He flicked a light on and peered at the thing through the eyepiece. 

“I have. It is a lamprey tooth.” 

Eliot’s eyes widened. 

“A lamprey?” His mind side-slipped to one of his classes at Brakebills, Instruction and Examination of Magical Creatures. The professor, a woman with wild red hair and round glasses with electric blue frames, had dissected one of these creatures during a class period where more than one student had to bolt to the nearest bathroom and vomit. Unlike the jawless freshwater fish that were so common on earth, these creatures were of the magical variety and sometimes made their way into other dimensions, where they chewed their way into a host’s body and took over his or her mind for whatever purpose it chose before laying its eggs inside the host’s stomach and moving to another victim. They swam through the air as simply as their earthen relatives moved through water but were much larger and more aggressive. “How the hell did it get into the waterfall room?” He paused, not wanting to give voice to his next question but having little choice. “Thaderos . . . do you think this thing . . . ate . . .” 

The centaur waved a dismissive yet respectful hand at Eliot as he inspected the blood at the end of the tooth. 

“It is unlikely, your highness. Mature lampreys do not devour humans in such a way. While they may sample their host’s flesh, they are much more likely to use them to nourish their eggs.” 

“Then what the hell could have happened? Is that Quentin’s blood?” Margo asked, and the centaur lifted his head. 

“It is. From what I can surmise, your highnesses, this lamprey invaded the castle and abducted King Quentin. For what purpose I cannot say--but since these creatures can cross dimensions as easily as a human crosses a road in the village, it is very possible that this was a planned attack.” 

“But the castle is warded!” Eliot frowned. Thaderos nodded. 

“And warded well. But lamprey are not always affected by protective magic, your highness. They have their own power . . .” Thaderos took the tooth over to a table and dropped it into a small goblet. “And this can work to our advantage.” He added several drops of varying liquid onto the tooth and it began to smoke. The wisps curled up out of the cup and Thaderos brought a small bottle over to Eliot. It reminded the young king so much of the emotion bottles they had used back at Brakebills that he nearly balked. “Take this please, your majesty,” the centaur doctor beckoned toward the wisps of smoke with both hands and they curled down into the bottle Eliot now held. Thaderos then plugged it with a cork stopper. After a moment, the bottle began to glow with a greenish light. To Eliot, the shade looked poisonous. 

“What are we looking at?” He asked, and the centaur glanced at the tooth, which was now partially dissolved. 

“In your studies at Brakebills, your highness, you must have learned that all magical creatures leave a signature in the air, no matter where they travel. This is the lamprey’s, and it may be used in connection with location spells to find King Quentin.” 

Eliot’s hand tightened around the bottle. 

“Thaderos, I could kiss you!” 

The doctor gave a low snort and stamped a foreleg. 

“I assure you, that’s not necessary.” 

“Maybe not, but the sentiment is sincere.” He shook the doctor’s hand and looked over at Margo. “Want to help me conjure up a locator spell?” 

“Hell yes,” the high queen replied, taking Eliot’s free hand as he hurried from the room, the glowing bottle spilling its eerie green light from between Eliot’s long fingers. 


	3. Part One: Fillory, Chapter 3

Consciousness announced itself to Quentin as taste--cloth and the tangy taste of his own blood--and he struggled to open his eyes. Pain stole over his arms and he realized they were chained over his head, tight metal manacles digging into his wrists. A constant cold draft let him know he was nude, and the attack at the waterfall suddenly came back to him with a terrifying clarity.   
The baby! Panic dropped a writhing cloak over Quentin’s mind and his captive body jerked as his bound hands tried to touch his belly. An answering thump-roll there let him know that his unborn child was as yet unharmed, and the anxiety eased. But where was he? A glance of his surroundings told him he was in a cavern of some sort, the walls covered with a thick, dark green moss. An ornate chair sat in one corner, a tiered pastry server on a shelf within arm’s reach. Quentin stared at it: the silver coating was pockmarked with either age, neglect, or both. The bottom tier held a dusty-looking pastry about the size of a wedding cookie, its surface thick with red mottled frosting. The young magician’s mind made a sudden, terrible cross connection.   
Have you brought me little cakes?   
“No,” Quentin muttered to himself as he fought the chains that bound his wrists and left him unable to cast or even free himself with a Popper tut. “No, it can’t be . . .”   
“You Children of Earth,” a voice said from the shadows, and cloven hooves rung out on the cold stone floor. As Quentin watched, a creature emerged into the cavern’s low light. “So quick to disbelieve, so reluctant to worship!”   
“Who are you?” Quentin asked, and the creature smiled. She had short, coarse russet hair and a matching beard that covered only her chin. Her legs were those of a robust grazing animal, more of that coarse hair covering her legs. She wore a white gauzy caftan, her heavy-looking breasts almost visible through the material. Her nose was broad and flat, her eyes pale yellow-brown. She carried a crooked walking stick in one hand, and it was then Quentin saw that her left hoof was either injured or deformed. The split was swollen and turned to the left.   
“As much as you know about Fillory, King Quentin, do you not recognize one of its gods?”   
“I . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know you,” Quentin replied. The knobby end of the creature’s walking stick cracked against his jaw a moment later, filling his vision with sickening flares of white light.   
“Little fool! Pretender to the Fillorian throne!”   
“I’m . . . not a pretender,” Quentin managed, and the goat woman snorted as her eyes narrowed.   
“So you say, yet you do not know my name!”   
Quentin worked his jaw. “You look like Ember and Umber, but no one has seen them since before the Beast was defeated.”   
The goat woman gave another snort.   
“Cowards! I should have shared their place in Fillorian history--my name should be as well known as theirs!” She struck her good hoof against the floor and it caused a shower of sparks. “I am Amber, sister to Ember and Umber and one of Fillory’s creators!”   
Quentin’s eidetic memory flipped through all five Fillory and Further books, read and re-read, then shook his head.   
“I’m sorry, uhm--there’s no mention of you in the books.”   
Amber stepped forward and seized a handful of Quentin’s hair, which she twisted around her chunky fist until Quentin cried out in pain.   
“But there should have been!” She snarled. “My brothers took advantage of my powers, used me to create Fillory, then exiled me! They exiled me from the very world I helped create!”   
“I don’t understand!” Quentin gasped as his scalp throbbed with pain. “What do you want with me?”   
Amber pulled her hand away from Quentin’s hair and pulled a slim ram’s horn from her belt. She raised it to her lips and blew, and Quentin’s lips trembled as three lampreys entered the cavern, moving through the air as easily as a fish moves through water. Their round mouths worked and sucked, rows of thin, ivory teeth undulating, and Quentin knew all at once what had attacked him in the waterfall pool. Behind the lampreys came large, ten-legged creatures with long, thin antenna, moving on sticky pedipalps, feathery yet deadly-looking quills covering each leg. Behind them were giant one-eyed men that had to duck down to enter the cavern. They were covered with coarse, dark hair, their one eye glaring a malevolent viscous grey-green. They wore no clothing, their genitals outsized and equally hairy.   
“This is the start of my army, King Quentin of Fillory. Soon, others will join me and we will break the veil of exile that my brothers designed for me. Once we do, Fillory and the lands beyond it, those that can be reached through the Neitherlands, will be under my control, my dominion!”   
Quentin’s mind raced as the lampreys circled him, their mouths working. The wounds on his hips and the small of his back were already heavily bruised and Amber poked one with the end of her walking stick before prodding his belly. He twitched away as best he could.   
“Stop it!”   
“You Children of Earth . . . you believe Fillory is yours to rule, and now you breed like the rats you really are! Fillory is mine, Quentin Coldwater, and I tell you now that your spawn will never sit on the throne!”   
“My--” Quentin frowned despite the threat of the lampreys. “Listen, I had dealings with Ember and he was no prize. If I’d known he’d exiled you, I would have tried to help! But he never mentioned you and neither did the Fillory books!”   
“Because the books were written by a human male whose greatest desire was to rut with children!” Amber snorted. “You Children of Earth are unclean, and I will end your line before it befouls my land any further!” She prodded his belly again. “And I will use the untapped power that lies in this unborn magicians’ child to release you and all the other Children of Earth who stain Fillory from their pathetic lives before I take my rightful place!”   
Quentin closed his eyes as the lampreys’ clammy mouths nuzzled his belly, eager to taste the blood of the child within. 

***

“Son of a bitch!”   
Margo winced as Eliot hurled the copper bowl he’d been carrying against the nearest wall. The remains of the flame within, which had sputtered and died as the locator spell failed, made a brief hissing sound as the bowl rebounded off the wall and rolled into the waterfall pool.   
“Helpful,” she commented, and Eliot turned to her.   
“Do you know what it means when a locator spell doesn’t work on a person?”   
“That either they’re dead or in another dimension where the magic can’t reach them.”   
A terrible wrath filled Eliot’s expression and for a moment Margo thought her best friend might actually strike her. She held her ground and then Eliot deflated as he watched the copper bowl bob around in the churning waters at the waterfall’s base.   
“So which do we think it is?” He asked, and Margo put a hand on his arm.   
“If Q was taken by a lamprey, then there’s a good chance he was taken away from Fillory, El. I think if whatever took him wanted him dead, it would have done the deed here and left the body behind. We can’t just give up and assume he’s gone!”   
“I don’t intend to give up.” Eliot held a hand out and the copper bowl floated into his palm, where he fixed a dent with a minor mending spell. “But if what you’re saying is true, then we’re going to need help.”   
Margo cast him a doubtful look.  
“If you’re thinking about who I think you’re thinking about--”   
“We don’t have many other choices, Margo! It’s not like we can ask Alice to niffin her way back here to help find Q! She’s long gone, so our only other option is someone who can travel to other dimensions.”   
“Even if he’s a dick?”   
Eliot sighed.   
“Yes, as I suspect he’s a dick with a heart,” Eliot said as they left the waterfall room and entered a sheltered garden through a side door. The space was filled with a sizable carrot patch and comfortable, clover-filled hutches. Eliot opened one and withdrew a piebald rabbit, its nose twitching expectantly. Eliot lifted one of the bunny’s floppy ears, whispered into it, then set it free to deliver his message. The rabbit raced off and Eliot watched it go, his expression set.   
Quentin, if you’re still alive out there somewhere, Eliot thought to himself, hang on, baby.   
Please, hang on. 

It didn’t take long for Eliot and Margo to receive a reply. Penny winked into the throne room about an hour after Eliot sent the messenger rabbit, wearing loose linen pants, a multicolored cardigan with a mismatched scarf over nothing at all, and a scowl.   
“A fucking rabbit dropped in out of nowhere and croaked out a message from you!” He said to Eliot.   
“And hello to you too,” Eliot said from his throne. Margo extended her hand from her own seat and Eliot took it, appreciating the show of solidarity.   
“It was creepy as hell, man!” Penny continued, and Eliot drummed his fingers on one knee.   
“It was also obviously effective, since you’re here.” He caught Penny’s gaze. “We need your help.”   
“Yeah, so Bugs said. What kind of help?”   
As Eliot recounted the story of Quentin’s disappearance and the discovery of the lamprey tooth, Penny’s scowl faded. By the end of it, he looked as concerned as Eliot had ever seen him, at least since that time he’d lost his hands.   
“Man, even if I want to help you, do you know how many worlds and dimensions there are? He could be in any one of them!”   
Eliot took the glowing green bottle from his pocket.   
“Our castle doctor caught the lamprey’s signature. You might be able to follow it where we couldn’t.” Eliot rose from his throne and offered the bottle to Penny. “I know that you and Q were never what you might call besties. But you’ve helped him in the past and if you were missing, I know he’d help find you.” Eliot paused and then lowered his voice. “Quentin isn’t the only one in trouble. Whatever’s happening, our child is with him, and I would very much like both of them back and unharmed.”   
Penny glanced away for a moment. “Told that nerdboy that being a king would raise all sorts of hell for him, but he didn’t listen,” he muttered, then sighed. “All right, fine. I’ll help you.” He took the bottle from Eliot’s hand. “But I ain’t guaranteeing I can find him!”   
Eliot touched his own chest, over his heart, in thanks.   
“Thank you.”   
“Don’t thank me yet . . . depending on what I find, you might not be feeling so grateful afterward.” He was gone a moment later and Margo rolled her eyes.   
“It’s hard to find good help these days,” she sighed as she put an arm around Eliot’s waist. “Don’t worry, El. Penny will bitch and moan but then probably turn himself inside out trying to track Q down.” 

***

The dank smell of rotting fish roused Quentin from a half doze and his eyes snapped open fully as he realized one of Amber’s lampreys was circling in his head, its mouth working. Although it was eyeless, it had a hungry bearing, as if Quentin was a deluxe ala carte menu. He swallowed hard but refused to shut his eyes.   
“Fuck you!” He whispered in a soft but fierce tone, and the lamprey circled lower. It began to bump Quentin’s belly with each pass and then it paused, the terrible mouth only inches from his skin. Quentin squirmed in the manacles that bound his wrists until the skin there began to bleed from the friction. “Don’t! Don’t--please--”   
“The lampreys enjoy teasing their victims,” Amber’s voice said from the cavern’s archway. “Especially when they can’t escape.” She leaned on her walking stick, her deformed foot giving her a striding step-and-hop gait. Quentin watched her approach; she shoved the lamprey aside as if it was no more than a pesky dog.   
“I’ve been thinking,” Quentin began as Amber checked the strength of his wrist manacles. “Maybe we can strike a deal.”   
“A deal? I do not make deals with insects such as yourself! You may think you’re a king, but to me? Pah!” She spat at his bare feet. “You are bug, a pest to be squashed! You and all your kind! Oh, how my brothers loved you . . . crafted thrones for their beloved Children of Earth, but did they once honor me? No! Instead, they trapped me here, where I am locked away and forced to look upon what might have been had they not betrayed me!”   
“But why? Why did they betray and exile you? And where did they send you?” Quentin glanced around the cave. “What is this place, if we’re not in Fillory?”   
“We are in a universe created by my brothers--a mirror universe that is the exact opposite of Fillory in every way! It was here that they imprisoned me while they allowed my world to bloom!”   
Quentin’s gaze flicked down to Amber’s twisted foot.   
“Is that how you--”   
The walking stick cracked against Quentin’s jaw again, hard enough to cause darkness to crowd the corners of his vision. The back of his head struck the wall and he blinked, stunned. Amber began to pace back and forth, and Quentin tried to track the movement of her stick so he might see the next blow coming.   
“No more questions, brat!” She snapped. “You are nothing!” Her stick prodded his belly until the child within moved at the motion. “This, though . . . yes. This is what will finally free me from this accursed place!”   
Quentin glared at her despite the pain throbbing through his head.   
“I’m not going to let you touch my child!”   
Amber threw her head back and bleated out a laugh that sent sharp chills down Quentin’s spine.   
“You cannot stop me, and neither can your precious High King and queen! You are lost to them!” Amber stepped closer, her fetid breath washing over Quentin’s face. “Very soon, Quentin Coldwater, you will know the true meaning of magic and the power it can hold over people, especially when it is wielded by a god!” She reached into a pocket sewn into her caftan and withdraw a stiff-looking piece of bread, which she forced into Quentin’s mouth. He gagged and she forced him to chew before holding a cured bladder of tepid water to his mouth. He spit out a few stale crumbs and drank; despite the water’s temperature, it hit his throat like a blessing. She only allowed him a few mouthfuls, though, and then pulled it away before tossing it at Quentin’s feet and leaving the cavern. Quentin squirmed in his chains, his arms numb and streaked with blood where it had run from the wounds on his wrists. After a moment, exhaustion took him and he sagged against the wall, the chains tightening once more. He never saw the figure that winked into one corner of the cave and walked toward him, all the color washed from his clothing and face. He resembled a two-dimensional photograph taken with a Victorian-era camera.   
“Quentin!” Penny whispered as he approached the bound magician, his image flickering in and out like a figure in a penny arcade video. “Shit, what is this place? Quentin!” The traveler knew he couldn’t free Quentin, not while he was in astral, and wherever he had followed the lamprey’s psychic signature to, it certainly wasn’t the Fillory he’d come to know. “Quentin, can you hear me?” He tried to keep his eyes focused on Quentin’s face--seeing him naked and en fuego with Alice had been more than enough for him, even though it had literally saved his life. “Come on man, snap out of it!” He turned as he heard sharp footsteps and his dark eyes widened as a goat woman appeared in the cavern with an armload of musty straw. She paused, her flat nose working the air, her golden eyes narrowed. Penny froze, his stomach clenching.   
Shit! Another goat person? Who the fuck is she, and what is this place?   
The goat woman sniffed the air again and gave a furious bleat, as if she could sense Penny’s presence. The traveler winced.   
Better for him if I go now and try and bring back help, Penny thought to himself. Fuck, what is all this? He glanced down at his hands, which flickered and took on the cast of a grainy photo. And how the hell am I gonna bring help to wherever this is?   
Penny whisked himself away a moment later, giving Quentin one more regretful glance as he returned to Whitespire. 

***

Quentin ran down a corridor where the walls and floor were streaked with blood and clumps of flesh. He held his swaying belly, panting with the effort, and Eliot held his hands out.   
“Quentin!’ I’m here!”   
Quentin’s expression changed from terror to relief, but then the lampreys that had been chasing him took him to the ground like a pack of lions attacking a gazelle. Eliot screamed as they ripped his clothes away and chewed their way into every orifice they could find. Blood ran down Quentin’s chin and neck in a freshet as one forced its way down its throat and another breached his anus. Eliot screamed, frozen in place as Quentin’s body seemed to explode all at once and their child was consumed as it slid from his partner’s ruined abdomen--  
“El! El, wake up!”   
The voice spilled through the thinning wall of Eliot’s nightmare and he clung to it like a drowning man, letting it pull him to consciousness. His eyes snapped open and Margo’s face swam into his line of sight. She put a hand to his cheek.   
“Jesus! Are you all right? You were screaming like someone was fucking murdering you!”   
Eliot sat up and wiped a trembling hand over his mouth.   
“No . . . it wasn’t me being murdered,” he murmured, and Margo stroked his face.   
“Q?” She asked, and Eliot swallowed the sudden dry lump in his throat. The taste brought tears to his eyes and he blinked them away.   
“It was just a dream, Margo, that’s all.” He sat up, feeling for his slippers, then realized he’d fallen asleep in his clothes. He kicked off his boots and then peeled off his thin knee-high socks before tucking his feet into his slippers. Margo followed him as he went to the closet to find a warm pair of pajamas; the evenings were turning colder now.   
“El--”   
“Today is the start of Quentin’s third trimester,” Eliot said as he chose a pair of black silk pajamas with red piping. “Can you believe I even know that word now, much less just said it out loud?”   
“You’re a good partner to Q,” Margo replied. “It’s not your fault what happened. We thought our wards would protect us.” She put a hand on his arm. “And I’m sure Penny is doing all he can. I know he acts like he wouldn’t piss on Q if he was on fire, but I think we know different.”   
“I hope we know different,” Eliot replied as he stripped off his shirt and pants and shrugged on his pajama top before stepping into the pants. They were lined with thin, soft fleece and guilt flooded his chest--he knew that wherever Quentin was, he was likely cold, hungry and frightened.   
If he was even still alive.   
“I don’t need to be a mind reader like Penny to know what you’re thinking, El,” Margo said as Eliot sat back down on the bed, his big, elegant hands dangling between his knees. He lifted his gaze to hers.   
“Don’t. Please.”   
“All we can do is wait.” She took one of his hands, squeezed it. “I know it’s hard to think about . . . what’s happening to him. The baby,” she said, and Eliot pulled his hand from hers as he stood up to pace.   
“I said, don’t.”   
Margo frowned.   
“Bottling up your shit is so first year at Brakebills.”   
“You’re welcome to go at any time.”   
“It’s adorable that you think you can just dismiss me like Tick or or your tailor or your chef--”   
Eliot whirled on her, his honey-colored eyes blazing, and then Penny was standing in between them, his eyes wide. Some of the anger left Eliot’s expression and Penny glanced at them both.   
“If I’m interrupting--”   
“Jesus, no!” Margo said, and Eliot’s fists clenched.   
“Did you find him?”   
“Yeah, I did,” Penny nodded, and Eliot crossed the room to the wet bar in the corner. He pulled out three crystal tumblers, poured a double shot for each of them, and brought them over. Penny blinked but accepted the glass. Eliot nodded, counting silently to ten in English, then in Cyrillic, before he trusted himself to speak.   
“Tell us everything,” he said, taking a long sip of the scotch. Margo gazed at him, but his anger at her seemed to have vanished with Penny’s news.   
“I--”   
“Is he alive?” Eliot asked, and Penny nodded.   
“Yeah. I mean, he’s being held captive but he’s alive. Pretty sure the kid is okay too--his stomach is still all big.”   
“Well thank fuck for that,” Margo sighed as she downed some of her drink. “Where is he? We figured he was taken out of Fillory completely or that locator spell would have worked.”   
“It’s another dimension,” Penny nodded. “But man, it’s really fucked up! The lampreys you told me about were there, and these huge bugs that look like rejects from Skull Island, and there’s this--I don’t know, she looks like a goat woman. Like--Ember with tits.”   
Eliot paused, his drink halfway to his mouth.   
“A goat woman?”   
“Yeah. She’s got Quentin chained up . . . I’m guessing she has plans for him but what they are is anyone’s guess.” Penny swirled the scotch around in the glass, the overhead chandelier making it glimmer. “There’s one more thing.”   
“What?” Margo asked, and Penny shook his head.   
“This dimension where Quentin is trapped . . . it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen, and I’ve traveled to a lot of different universes, you know? It’s like . . . stepping into a photograph that’s so old that the image is almost impossible to see. I went all grainy, like, sepia tones. It was the most fucked up place I’ve ever been.”   
“But you can get back there, right? And you can take us?” Eliot asked. Penny’s lips thinned.   
“Traveling with other people has always been an issue, man. I’m not even sure where ‘there’ is. That goat chick though . . .” He shook his head. “She reminded me way too much of Ember for fucking comfort.”   
“Could she be connected to Fillory?” Margo asked. “Like some kind of renegade or throwback that left this universe and created her own?”   
“That wasn’t my impression,” Penny shook his head. “She seemed like she was in control of those wormy things, but it didn’t seem like she had much power of her own.”   
“We need to get to wherever this place is and free Quentin.” Eliot refilled his glass with another double shot. “We can worry about the goat lady later.”   
“And how do we do that, exactly?” Margo asked, and Eliot gazed into his glass a moment before he lifted his head   
“I need to go hunting.”


	4. Part One: Fillory, Chapter 4

“You’re going to just leave?”   
Eliot glanced over his shoulder at Margo as Tick adjusted his heavy green-and-gold cloak that bore the Fillorian crest on the velvet material. A squire stood at the open doorway of the common room, a quiver of arrows and a large crossbow at the ready.   
“I think it’s the only way to get to Q.”   
“Yeah . . . I am so not getting it.”   
“You read the Fillory books--Fiona was your favorite character.”   
“And that has what to do with you leaving, exactly?”   
“I need to hunt down and shoot a questing creature. They grant wishes, Margo! If I can bring one down, I can ask it to send us to wherever Quentin is! Otherwise we spend the rest of our lives guessing which dimension he’s in and he and our child are dead. It’s the only chance we have!”   
“And if you don’t find one? What then?”   
“Thank you, Tick, that’ll be all,” Eliot said, and Tick bowed before leaving the room. Eliot glanced in the mirror, unable to resist admiring his hunting outfit, then turned to Margo.   
“We’ll fire bomb that bridge when we come to it, Bambi. For now, I have to try.” He kissed her cheek. “Hold down the fort--uh, castle--until I get back, all right?”   
“You’re crazy,” Margo sighed, but a tired smile graced her lips. “Good luck.”   
“Thanks. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He took his weapon from the young squire and headed out to the stables, where a groom had his mount ready. The palomino gelding, which Eliot had named Midas, had been sold at auction because unlike his dam, he was unable to speak. Most Fillorians saw this as a defect, but he’d proven himself as an intelligent, steady mount, and Eliot was fond of the horse. He swung up into the saddle, nodded his thanks to the groom, and headed off toward the woods. The daily eclipse was still several hours off and Eliot knew that questing creatures often showed themselves to the worthy while the sun was hidden. As he rode toward the Flying Forest, his mind worried over what Penny had told him like a dog gnawing a bone.   
The goat woman had to be connected to Ember and Umber, of that he was almost certain. But who was she? Their mother? Grandmother? A forgotten playmate left behind when Fillory was still in its infancy? The books were clear that the twin ram gods had created this world, but had they done it alone? And what did this creature want with Quentin?   
Midas snorted and his hindquarters tensed, bringing Eliot from his thoughts. The Flying Forest lay before him and he stroked Midas’ neck to calm him.   
“Easy, easy . . . I don’t want to go in there either, fella, but we don’t have much choice. C’mon--” He gave Midas a nudge and the palomino shook its head, the ornate silver bridle jingling, before obeying and trotting into the thick copse of trees. An odd fog covered the forest floor and Eliot frowned as Midas picked his way around trees with trunks three times the width and height of a telephone pole. Eliot blinked as his thoughts began to wander.   
“Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore,” he murmured to himself. The fog grew thicker as he rode toward the middle of the woods. “What was the name of the guy who played the Cowardly Lion? Burt . . . Burt Ward? No wait . . . that was Batman’s sidekick. The actor, not the actual sidekick.” Eliot began to slide off the saddle and he caught himself, the action striking him as amusing. He sat up in the saddle and then burst into giggles. Midas tossed his head at the sound and Eliot patted his neck.   
“Shhhh! Be vewy vewy quiet . . . I’m hunting questing cweatures!” His head spun and he laughed again as he fell from the saddle and slid to the ground in a chuckling heap. Midas lowered his head to sniff at his master and Eliot blinked up at him. The fog swirled around the horse’s ears and all at once, Eliot understood. “Flying Forest . . . oh shit.” He got to his feet, swayed, and tried to get his foot into the saddle stirrup.   
“Hup! No--hup!” He swung his leg up twice, missed, and scowled at his mount. “Some help you are!” He led Midas to the nearest stump and used it as a mounting block. Up ahead, a fleeting silvery-white figure ducked between two trees. Midas whinnied loudly and nearly unseated Eliot as he leapt forward. Eliot gathered the reins as he tried to shake off the sensation of having smoked the entirety of the world’s fattest joint. After a moment he gave the horse its head and Midas swerved right, jumped a log, and plunged onto a trail that was barely visible. 

“Jesus fuck--” Eliot ducked before a low-hanging branch parted his head from his shoulders. The sun began to fade a few moments later as the eclipse began and Midas stepped into a clearing, his side heaving, his neck wet with lathery sweat. Eliot slid off his back and loosened the saddle’s cinch before he made his way to a fallen log to sit down, his crossbow laying across both knees.   
“Senor Frog’s Wild Ride!” He muttered to himself as the light began to drain from the woods and leave long shadows on the ground, like fingers. Eliot shrugged off mild paranoia as his mind made a cross connection to the Beast’s elongated extra fingers. He closed his eyes a moment to dispel the image. Silence filled the forest as Fillory’s birds went to roost for the duration of the eclipse. He let it surround him, then opened his eyes as Midas made a soft, shocked squealing noise. A glimmering shape stepped from the darkness, and as Eliot’s eyesight adjusted, his heart gave a kick of disbelief. A unicorn stood before him, violet eyes staring out from under silver eyelashes. Her coat was the color of forest shadows and aging parchment, her mane and tail like seafoam breaking against shoreline boulders. Her cloven hooves made no sound as she stepped toward him. Eliot stared, his crossbow forgotten in his lap.   
“This is some serious funny fog,” he murmured, and the unicorn lowered her head to gaze into Eliot’s eyes.   
“You are not hallucinating, High King Eliot of Fillory,” the unicorn said. Her voice was like the chiming of crystals in a distant breeze.   
“What am I doing, exactly?” Eliot asked, and the unicorn’s horn touched his right shoulder, coaxing him to stand.   
“You came here to hunt a questing creature . . . and you have found one.”   
“You--you’re a questing creature?” Eliot asked, and the unicorn tossed her head. It glimmered like a wedge of polished silver.   
“I am something much greater! I am more than magic--I am made of magic! And I choose who sees me.”   
“And you chose me?”   
“Yes . . . and not because you are High King. That is not where your greatest power lies.”   
“Forgive me but I’m not following you.”   
“You are a magician and a high king, but here is where your greatest power lives.” The tip of the unicorn’s horn touched Eliot’s chest, over his heart. “Your love for King Quentin is what drives you on this quest, and I doubt you understand how rare that is.” She tossed her head. “We questing creatures are hunted for fame, power, glory, jealousy. Your arrows cannot kill us, but being shot by them is no pleasant experience!” Her voice took on a scolding tone. “‘I want to be rich, unicorn, I want to be famous, unicorn, I want my lady love to love me too, unicorn!’ Not once in my long life has anyone said, “I want to help someone I love, unicorn.”   
“That’s exactly what I want. And how did you know Quentin is in trouble?”   
“A unicorn has many messengers, High King Eliot.”   
“Can you help me get him back?”   
“I cannot enter that dimension--I can only view it.”   
“Can you send me and my friends there?”   
“Yes, but only if you hunt me successfully.”   
“Wait what? We’re standing here together talking!”   
“There are rules, High King Eliot . . . and I do not make them.” The violet eyes narrowed slightly.   
“Okay, I’m sorry. Can I ask one more question?”   
“If you wish.”   
“Do you know anything about a goat woman who maybe used to live in Fillory but doesn’t anymore?”   
“I have no answers for you there,” the unicorn shook her head. “But then, I am only 500 years old. Perhaps my father or grandfather would know the answer.”   
“Can you take me to them?”   
“Only if I am hunted properly.”   
“Oh for the love of--” Eliot lifted his crossbow and fired, striking the unicorn in the rump. She bucked and shook herself as a single drop of silvery blood struck the ground. She nodded as she turned her head to look at the wound.   
“Well done.”   
“Thank you.” Eliot gave a brief bow. “Do you have a name?”   
“Not one any human could pronounce.” She shook out her mane. “You may call me Ari.”   
“Ari,” Eliot repeated. “I’d be very grateful for any help you could give me. I know your people tend to hide yourselves but if they could tell me anything about the creature that has Quentin trapped, I’d reward them in any way I possibly could!”   
“You hunted me. Speak and be satisfied.”   
Eliot cleared his throat.   
“Unicorn, take me to where your people dwell!”   
They were away before Eliot could finish, Midas included, and the magician gave a brief cry of surprise as his self was yanked out of his body, twisted around, and then replaced all in a matter of nanoseconds. When he came back to himself, he was standing in a grove filled with fragrant flowers and drenched in sunlight. Ari stood next to him and she gave a fast flick of her tail.   
“Do not speak until my tail touches you!” She whispered, and it occurred to Eliot that he’d never had an animal whisper to him before. Crystalline vines parted at the other end of the grove and four unicorns, larger than Ari, stepped inside. They were like Fillory’s night sky, shifting shades of ivory, and so otherworldly that Eliot dropped to one knee and lowered his head at their approach. The largest one, his horn a twist of iridescent colors, touched a cloven hoof twice to the earth.   
“Rise, High King Eliot Waugh,” the unicorn said, and Eliot obeyed. Ari stepped up next to him.   
“He hunted me, father. He wants only information.”   
“I am Arrgus,” the large unicorn said. “Ask your questions.”   
Ari tapped Eliot with her tail.   
“My husband was abducted from Whitespire,” Eliot began. “Ari believes you or her grandfather might have some information about who’s responsible--do you know anything about a goat woman?”   
Arrgus’ amethyst-colored eyes rolled until the whites showed and his silky muzzle drew back to show flat but strong teeth.   
“Come with me, Eliot Waugh.” Powerful hindquarters swung around as the unicorn started away. Eliot jogged to keep up with him.   
“What is it? You know who I’m talking about, don’t you!”   
Arrgus remained silent as he left the glade and walked down a glimmering path lined with lapis-lazuli stones. It opened up all at once and Eliot found himself standing on a beach lined with ebony sand, the grains glittering against the shore of a blinding white sea.   
“The creature you speak of is named Amber. She is a triplet sibling to Ember and Umber.”   
“Fillorian history never mentioned a sister,” Eliot said, and the old unicorn looked up at the sky. The daily eclipse was nearly complete.   
“There are many points Fillorian history has failed to record. Amber is one of them--perhaps it was left out because of its tragic nature,”   
“Tragic?” Eliot aked, and Arrgus rose up on his hind legs. As he did so, a massive wave grew directly in front of them and figures began to emerge from the foam: goat people--no--Ember and Umber themselves, Eliot realized. Arrgus began to speak as the figures came ashore to act out his words.   
“Before Fillory came to be, the Old Gods sent their children out into the universe to create new worlds so they might be worshipped and adored.” A ball of water, turning like a planet, rose from the wave and the goat forms raised their hands toward it. “A trio of siblings--triplets--set out to create a world filled with magical creatures, one that would draw humans to it. Ember and Umber loved your kind, you see--your imaginations captivated them. The sister, though . . . she felt differently. She wanted to create a new world too, but one that belonged to her. They fought often--” The water figures began to crash into each other, break apart, then reform. “--until the brothers knew they could no longer include their sister in the creation of Fillory. They laid a trap for her just outside their sacred glade but things went badly. Amber recognized the hidden pit a moment too late and tried to jump it, but the earth on the other edge gave way and her hoof became jammed between two rocks. She tried to escape but it snapped . . . the sound was like an avalanche, and the animals with cloven hooves bawled out in empathy.”   
“And Ember and Umber?” Eliot asked, and Arrgus turned in a tight circle.   
“They knew she was badly hurt and it was their time to act. They banished her. Perhaps they assumed she would die on her own--”   
“She’s not on her own,” Eliot replied. “My people have a traveler among us and he’s seen her! She has lampreys with her, and other creatures too. I don’t know what she wants with Quentin or our child, but whatever it is, I can’t let it happen! Arrgus, please, our traveler can astral project but he can’t take anyone with him. I know I used my questing wish to come here but--I’m asking for a freebie so I can help King Quentin.”   
“Fillory’s rules are mercurial, High King Eliot,” Arrgus replied. “Even we unicorns cannot always act as we wish.”   
“What does that mean? Are you refusing me?”   
“No. I only say that our rules must stand, even against the wishes of a Child of Earth. However . . .”   
“However?” Eliot turned.   
“Questing creatures cannot grant boons unless they are properly hunted.”   
Eliot met the unicorn’s strange gaze and then lifted his crossbow to fire. Arrgus lowered his head, his ears pinned back, and parried the arrow with his horn. A shower of sparks flew up in a wide arc as they met and the arrow tumbled off into the woods.   
“Very well done,” Arrgus nodded. “Name your request, High King Eliot.”   
Eliot went to one knee.   
“Give me a way to free King Quentin and our unborn child.” 

***

“You met a what? You’re not serious!”   
“A unicorn, and yes, I’m serious.”  
Eliot and Margo sat under a peach tree in Whitespire’s northern garden. It was one of Eliot’s favorite spots, one where he and Quentin had spent a great deal of time picnicking and kissing and showing their Fillorian subjects how humans expressed affection.   
“And it gave you a unicorn horn.”   
“Well . . . a piece of one, yes.” Eliot took it from his pocket and held it up to the light. “It’ll allow us to travel like Penny does, only with our bodies and minds intact.”   
Margo took the piece and rolled it around in her palm.   
“It’s super weird to know that unicorns collect the horns of their dead.”   
“It is, but the horns retain magic even after the unicorn dies. That’s why Arrgus and his people live in a hidden world--so humans can’t use the horns for their own gain.”   
“So . . . neither of us are exactly adept at traveling, El. How do we even know how to get where we need to go?”   
“Arrgus gave me a spell.” Eliot pulled a rolled piece of parchment from his pocket. “But there’s a bit of a caveat.”   
“Caveat is a fancy way of saying no one rides for free,” Margo frowned and opened the parchment. “El . . . did you read this?”   
“Of course I did.”   
“But the spell--”   
“I know. It’s Arrgus’ idea and he has a good point, Margo. We can’t just waltz into the dimension where this goat woman is exiled and check Quentin out like it’s the Betty Ford Center. She’s exiled but she’s still a goddess, so we have to disguise ourselves. It’s the only way we can get close to Q.”   
“But this?” Margo scowled at the concealment spell. Eliot reached up and plucked a peach off a low-hanging branch. It was firm and fuzzy and Eliot brought it to his nose. Quentin loved peaches: it had been his idea to collect some pits and grow trees in the castle garden.   
“If you have a better idea, I’m listening.” Eliot bit into the peach.   
“That’s hardly the point! We don’t know anything about this dimension! Who knows if that horn will help us get back? Places where people get exiled to aren’t known for their easy accessibility, El!”   
Eliot plucked a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his blazer and wiped peach juice from his chin.   
“Are you bailing on me?”   
“No! Jesus!” She passed the parchment back. I said I’d help you!”   
“It’s the body hair, isn’t it. You can’t handle the body hair.”   
“That might be a part of it!”   
Eliot set the peach aside and took both her hands.   
“I don’t want anyone else by my side for this. Who else am I supposed to trust?” His honey-colored eyes met hers. “Don’t make me beg, Bambi!”   
Margo sighed, her painted lips thinning out, and Eliot cocked his head at her.   
“I thought puppy eyes were Q’s secret weapon.”   
“Taught me well, he did!” Eliot nodded, and Margo gave a brief scoff.   
“If you’re going to talk like Yoda, I’m definitely making you beg!” She said, then sighed as Eliot squeezed her hands. “All right, all right! I’ll come with you!”   
“Thank you!” He tugged Margo forward and kissed her cheek. “I swear I’ll make it up to you.”   
Margo gave the concealment spell one more glance and shuddered.   
“Good luck with that!” 

***

“Your friends believe they are clever.”   
Quentin raised his head from the pile of straw that now served as his bed. Amber had also provided him with a slop bucket and a bowl of tepid water, which he had to lift with his bound hands to sip from. The goddess had also fitted his fingers with metal braces that restricted their movements, preventing the magician from casting. The pain in Quentin’s arms when she had finally released him from the chains had caused him to crawl to the straw pile, which was slightly damp but fresh, where he’d promptly lost consciousness. Now, as the goddess spoke, her words cut through the haze of pain that made his shoulders and arms all but useless.   
“What . . . my friends?” He asked, and Amber nodded as she paced the area, her walking stick making impatient noises on the cavern floor.   
“The high king has enlisted help from creatures I created! I gathered seafoam from the Secret Sea to create the unicorn--it is I who decreed the animals of that land should talk!” She landed a kick to Quentin’s right thigh with her good hoof and he winced as he curled his legs to his belly to protect it.   
“We aren’t your enemies! If you would just tell us what you need--”   
“What I need?” The goddess bleated laughter. “Why, I need for you all to die so I can reclaim my rightful place in Fillory! Your friends are planning to disguise themselves and coming here to save you--but not even the unicorns know about the power of this place--this mirror world where my brothers left me for dead! Magic as you know it does not function here! If it did, do you not think I would have freed myself long ago? Pah! The fools!”   
“I want to go home,” Quentin murmured, his head dropping back down into the straw. The joints of his fingers were swollen and numb from the devices Amber had strapped onto both of his hands.   
“Strange how we both want the same thing,” Amber replied. “But only I will have my wish granted! You and your child are the key that unlocks that door, Quentin Coldwater.” She tossed a hunk of meat by his head. “Eat.”   
Quentin ignored the food.   
“I don’t understand! There are plenty of creatures in Fillory that are more powerful than I am.”   
“Indeed . . . but you have one thing they do not.” She prodded his belly. “Do you know what allowed you to carry a child when others of your sex cannot?”   
Quentin shook his head.   
“You truly know nothing about the land you rule!” Amber snorted. “Fillory is, in essence, a land of opposites. Black sand on white water, white skies that riot with black stars--are these things you never noticed or appreciated during your rule as king? During the eclipse, the sun and moon swap colors that drench Fillory with magic anew each day. it was this magic that changed you, and it is the same magic that will destroy this universe and allow me to escape when your child is born! And as for your friends?” Amber laughed. “They are about to discover the true nature of this mirror universe and take my place as its eternal captives!” 

***

“There must be another way to get close to Quentin!”   
“If there was, believe me, I’d entertain it.”   
Eliot and Margo stood in his common room, the chunk of unicorn horn in his right hand. “I think we should cast the concealment spell first.”   
“Big hairy giants with their ball out,” Margo sighed. “Are we sure that’s what Penny saw?”   
“It’s the only way, Bambi. It has to be something relatively bipedal--we can’t disguise ourselves as another species, so it’s the giants Amber has on her side or nothing.”   
“Jesus,” Margo sighed. “All right, but I will disavow this ever happened if anyone ever finds out!”   
“Believe me, I’m not exactly eager to play Hagar the Horrible myself, but we aren’t exactly swimming in choices.” Eliot set the piece of horn aside before lifting his hands and casting the concealment spell. Margo braced herself for the heady feel of magic to change her, but nothing more fantastic happened than a mild breeze that stirred her long hair. Eliot frowned at his hands.   
“What the hell--” The piece of horn began to glow before a massive shaft of light fanned from its tip. Eliot shook his head. “Wait, shit--! We aren’t ready--”   
The light made a low, almost aggressive noise before all the color washed from the shape and it enveloped the two magicians, pulling them into the mirrorverse before either of them had time to draw a breath to cry out. Behind them, the piece of horn bubbled and turned black, spreading a malevolent-looking goop as it dissolved. Margo reached for Eliot’s hands as they were drawn through the door but he was jerked away and lost in a roar of power that threatened to burst her eardrums.   
“Eliot!” She screamed, unable to hear her own voice over the din, and then the door slammed shut with them on the other side, in the same dimension as Quentin but trapped in their own individual mirror worlds.   
Miles away, in an unseen Fillorian glen, the unicorn Arrgus bowed his ivory head.   
“It is done."


	5. Part Two: Mirror Images, Chapter 5

##  Part II: Mirror Images 

##  Interlude I: The Preacher and the Pariah 

“Eliot darling, it’s six! Time for dinner!” 

The voice, female and rather sing-song, caused Eliot to start and look up from the lined notebook he’d been writing in. His new sermon, which was in praise of monogamy in marriage, was nearly complete. He shut the notebook and glanced up, pausing, as he caught his reflection in a nearby mirror. 

At not quite 30, the Reverend Eliot Waugh held sway over a congregation of nearly 100 at his Baptist Church, and that number grew each month as the residents of Whiteland, Indiana, heard about his teachings and came to listen to his sermons. He cut an imposing figure despite his young age with his tall stature, black suits, short, ebony hair which he refused to let grow because there was something debauched about the thick, natural curls that appeared when he neglected to go for his monthly trim, and rimless round spectacles that drained much of the kindness from his honey-colored eyes. 

“Eliot?” The voice--his wife--called from upstairs, and Eliot closed the worn composition book. 

“Coming, Eugenia!” He called, turning away from the mirror and climbing the stairs that led to his basement office. His wife was setting the table, her ample form moving from one place setting to another. A Corningware dish dominated the center of the table, its cover wet with condensation as the chicken inside steamed. Buttered peas, biscuits, and a jug of milk rounded out the meal, and Eliot surveyed it all as he sat down. 

“Does it look good to y’all?” Eugenia asked. Her family was third-generation Whiteland and Eliot’s father, a man who Eliot thought of as firm but always fair, had arranged the marriage two months after Eliot graduated high school. Eliot hadn’t minded so much--dating seemed like a chore and a waste of time, so he’d married the rather simple, plump, and kind woman, who was almost ten years his senior, and settled into a house offered by the church. It was the uncomplicated life he’d always longed for

_ (but is it, is it really, wasn’t there something else)  _

and Eugenia was simply a part of it. 

“It looks very fine,” Eliot nodded as she passed him the dish of chicken and the peas. Eliot filled his plate and poured himself a glass of milk as his wife sat across from him at the oak table. It held six chairs but they were rarely occupied--Eugenia had never been able to conceive and their circle of friends consisted of a few other local preachers and their wives. The couple ate to the sounds of silverware striking china and liquid filling glasses for nearly twenty minutes before Eugenia spoke. 

“The Sunday school room needs its walls patched again, Eliot. Maybe we can find some money in the coffers for it soon? Winter’ll be upon us before long.” 

“I can ask father to recommend a handyman,” Eliot replied as he helped himself to another helping of peas. “He might know one who needs the work or who’s willing to trade for the job.” 

“Why’s your pa so frugal?” Eugenia asked, and Eliot frowned. 

“Because waste is a sin, whether it’s food, natural resources, or money. Father understands that.” 

“Yes, it’s just . . . I’m afeared the little ones will be cold if the job isn’t done soon.” 

Eliot paused in cutting his chicken and glanced up at his wife, pinning her with his gaze. After a moment, she stared at her plate. With his woman properly chastened, he went back to the chicken. His sermon would need finishing after supper, and he needed to write another letter to the company that might sponsor a new cross for his church’s spire. 

_ Father would have had them paying for a new cross, pews, and new Bibles _ , Eliot thought to himself. As a preacher, Josiah Waugh had no equal, but a heart attack the previous winter had forced him to retire and leave his flock in his youngest son’s hands. The others, Brady, Samuel, and Cody, were all tradesmen and lived in other parts of the state. Only Eliot had stayed behind to follow in his father’s footsteps but, as his father often reminded him, he had a “fair piece to go” before becoming the kind of preacher the family could be proud of. 

The phone on the wall in the kitchen began to ring and Eugenia excused herself to answer it. Her voice began to rise and fall in a way that let Eliot know it was their neighbor, Sally Eaton. She was a gossipy woman who’d never married and fed Eugenia stories about the congregation, usually ones that made her look good. 

_ She’s a miserly woman too _ , Eliot thought as he set his empty plate aside.  _ She’d sooner leave a Minute Rice coupon in the collection basket than a dollar _ .  _ But at least she gossips about things that matter.  _

“That was Sally on the phone,” Eugenia said as she came back into the room, and Eliot drained the last of his milk from the glass. 

“What’s the good word?” Eliot asked, and his wife bunched her plump hands into the folds of her skirt. 

“Some of the children in our congregation are playing dangerous games . . . Sally says she saw Davey Shotton and his friends in the alley day before yesterday, playing that card game where they pretend they have magical powers!” 

“Magical powers?” Eliot echoed, and Eugenia nodded, her florid cheeks going even darker. 

“She says they were wearing costumes. Magic is the work of the devil, Eliot! What are we going to do?” 

Eliot rose from his chair, a righteous kind of fury growing in his chest. 

“These games are trying to turn our children away from the Lord. Put on a pot of coffee for me, Eugenia . . . I’m going to need to rewrite my sermon.” 

***

“Hey look! It’s Marginal!” 

Margo cringed and lifted the armful of books she held closer to her body, like a shield. She was only a few steps from the campus library and scuttled toward the door, and perceived safety. Four of her peers sat around a granite table across the sidewalk, their glittering phones spread across the surface, the screens unblemished. 

“Where you going, Marginal?” One of the girls called out. “To look up acne cures? Make sure you look under Z for zits!” She crowed laughter at her own words and Margo bolted up the library steps to escape it. The smell of books, well preserved, breathed their scent into the cavernous library and Margo welcomed it as she dropped off her borrowed books and escaped into the stacks. Her tartan skirt, hemmed in a clumsy, crooked line below her knees, swayed as she climbed a set of stairs to the art history section. Two other girls, descending the steps in fashionable outfits, clutched the railing in a dramatic way as she passed them, then giggled to each other as they kept moving in the other direction. Margo finally escaped into an empty study room and swung the door shut, her lips trembling as she studied her reflection in the glass. She was petite and plump, with dimpled knees and elbows. Her dark hair hung in two limp curtains over her shoulders, which she often used to try and conceal the acne that marred her cheeks and chin. Creams and astringent washes did little to banish it and it grew in both large cysts and smaller whiteheads that always appeared to be on the verge of exploding. Tortoiseshell glasses dominated most of her face and magnified her dark eyes. 

“Marginal!” She whispered to her image in a fierce tone before throwing herself into a nearby chair. As an only child, her parents had expected much of her but their dreams of raising a beauty queen had been dashed early. Margo had further ruined their plans by shunning the life of a would-be starlet and hid herself away in books instead, becoming more introverted as the looks she’d expected to grow into never materialized. She’d expected college to change things but they’d only grown worse as her clumsiness and appearance ostracized her. 

_ There has to be a way I can reinvent myself. To be more than what I am!  _ She touched a hand to one inflamed cheek before jumping up from her chair and fleeing the room for the anatomy and health section. _ I won’t be Marginal anymore!  _

  
  
  


***

“This universe may have been my prison for many eons, Quentin Coldwater, but now it will act as my executioner!” 

Quentin sat against the wall of the cavern, working his way through a pile of stale but edible salted crackers. While he didn’t have much interest in nourishing himself, he didn’t want to neglect Sebastian. Amber stood nearby, looking into a portal. 

“My unicorns did well . . . your High King and queen might know many things about Fillory, but what they could not have known is that there are still creatures who remain loyal to me, particularly the ones I created! Perhaps you’d like to see how your fellow royals will meet their end?” The goddess stepped to one side so Quentin could look into the portal. It appeared to be split down the middle; on the left, a version of Eliot Quentin barely recognized stood at a pulpit, where he railed and shook both fists and pounded them on whatever surface he could reach. He wore a white pulpit robe adorned with a gold cross and nausea gripped Quentin’s guts until the crackers threatened to make a violent reappearance. On the other half of the portal, an overweight and plain-looking Margo was mocked and jeered at by a group of people her age as she scuttled past them, a hunted look in her eyes. 

“What have you done to them?” Quentin asked, and Amber laughed. 

“It is the mirror universe that has done this . . . made them into mirror versions of themselves! Their fears will transform them into someone whose obsessions will drive them mad and leave them as little more than drooling animals, trapped here, as I am--as I will soon no longer be!” 

“You bitch! Let them go!” Quentin hauled himself to his feet and lunged at her, but lack of food and his shape made him clumsy. He stumbled and one of the large insects stepped between them, shoving Quentin back with a pincer the length of a pool cue. Quentin sat down hard and the pincer opened, the inner armor slick with venom. It menaced him and Quentin fell onto his right side, curling up like a distressed hedgehog. Amber put a hand on the insect’s back and the creature, which reminded Quentin of an amblypygi with a severe glandular issue, backed away, its pedipalps purring against the cavern floor. 

“They had to be dealt with,” Amber said as Quentin lifted his head. “Of all the living things in Fillory, they were the greatest threat to my plan because they love you! My brothers loved Fillory and because of it, I was sent here. Oh, I managed to avoid the illusions that will drive your lover and friend mad and find others that are still loyal to me--” She glanced back at the giants that stood guarding the mouth of the cave “--but it was not enough to free me.” She stepped closer to Quentin. “My brothers’ love for you Children of Earth created this place, and only your grief can destroy it! So you will watch those you love suffer permanent mental breakdowns, and when the time comes for your child to be born, I will use its unique magic to break free from this universe!” She dug the end of her walking stick under Quentin’s chin and forced him to raise his head. “And leave you for my lampreys, who will use you for an incubator!” 

The three lampreys surrounded him, as if her words had made them eager to do exactly that, and Quentin looked up at the viewing portal again. His family was here with him in this dimension, trapped as he was, and soon they’d be driven mad by the illusions they were being forced to live. He wrapped his arms around his belly as tears came to his eyes. 

_ El, Margo . . . Sebastian. I’m so sorry.  _


	6. Part Two: Mirror Images, Chapter 6

Penny paced around Whitespire’s thrones as Kady and Julia stood nearby, speaking in low tones with some of the servants Eliot and the other royals. The ornate thrones had been standing empty for nearly four days now, with no sign of Eliot or Margo. 

“Do you think they might have gone back to Brakebills for help?” Kady asked as she returned to his side, and Penny shook his head. 

“No way would they have left with Quentin missing. They’re vain assholes, but they’re vain assholes who care about him. You know?” He asked, and Kady gave him a grim smile. 

“I know the type.” 

Penny gave a soft snort in reply and glanced over at the servants. 

“Any new info from Tick’s people? They always seem to know all the castle gossip.” 

“Usually they do,” she sighed. “But it’s like they just left the throne room and vanished. It’s like Q . . . they searched everywhere, even all four gardens.” 

“I beg your pardon,” a voice said at his side, and Penny started as he glanced down to see Tick standing there. While the rotund little man wasn’t a magician, he always seemed to appear out of nowhere. Julia turned. 

“Tick? What is it?” 

“There is one place we did not search--his majesty does not allow anyone inside unless he is present.” 

“Where’s that?” Penny asked. 

“His majesty’s common room.”

“That room with the wet bar and all the maps?” 

“The very one,” Tick nodded. 

“And it didn’t occur to you that the rules might be bent, considering that your three rulers are missing?” 

“There are few on my staff who would risk receiving the sharp side of his majesty’s tongue,” Tick replied. Kady smirked. 

“Sometimes all it has are sharp sides.” 

“Precisely. However, the rules apply only to the staff, not to other Children of Earth.” 

“This information woulda been helpful four fuckin’ days ago!” Penny snapped as he left the throne room and headed for the nearest set of stairs. Kady and Julia followed. Penny took the stone steps several at a time and reached the common room door first. He turned the knob and found it unlocked--of course, he knew the servants would never enter on their own. The torches flickered to life as the three magicians stepped into the room and Julia’s freckled nose wrinkled. 

“Do you smell that?” She asked, and Penny nodded. 

“Like . . . burnt sugar cooked in . . . armpit.” He went to the marble table that dominated the room. The castle artisans had carved a detailed map into the oak, but now it was marred with a puddle of thick black sludge. Penny leaned over to sniff it and he frowned, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Fuck! What is that?” He asked, and Kady waved a hand over it. The puddle lit up like she’s filled it with glitter. 

“What the hell? It’s unicorn horn! But it’s melted!” 

“That’s impossible,” Julia countered. “Unicorn horn is indestructible!” 

“Well, maybe not as much as we thought.” Kady touched the table and then held her fingers up in a square. “There were spell ingredients here too . . . looks like a concealment spell.” 

“Maybe that’s why we can’t find them,” Penny suggested. “If they pulled that spell off, they could be in the castle and look like someone else.” 

“No concealment spell lasts four days, Penny!” Kady shook her head. “No . . . this is like--like they were going to cast but then something went wrong.” 

“If that is unicorn horn, then there’s only one place we can start,” Julia said. “We have to talk to the unicorns and find out which one of them gave Eliot the horn.” 

“You’re gonna just stroll up to a unicorn?” Penny scoffed. “Their valley is hidden by magic! How are you even gonna find them?” 

“We have to find a way,” Julia said as she materialized a bowl in one hand and scooped the puddle into it before adding a lid to keep it secure. “If Kady is right and something did go wonky, then Eliot and Margo might be in trouble too.” 

##  Interlude II 

Elioit’s left hand burned with cramps and abused muscles as he filled page after page in his sermon notebook, marking the pages with letters that were jagged and thick, some of them bleeding onto the opposite page. He’d been shut away in his basement office all morning, organizing and reorganizing his thoughts, but they refused to gel. The phone rang upstairs and he could hear Eugenia’s heavy footsteps as she crossed the kitchen to answer it. Her greeting was a far-off murmur, and then the basement door opened. Eliot’s fingers tightened around the pen until it left a deep indent in his index finger. 

“I told you, no calls or visitors!” 

“But Eliot, it’s your Pa,” she called down, and Eliot yanked off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes before polishing the lenses with a small shammy and heading up the steps. His wife stood near the door, clutching the receiver to her large bosom, and she handed it over as if it might explode. Eliot shooed her away with a flap of one hand and pressed the receiver to his ear. 

“Hello, Father.” 

“Eliot?” The voice in his ear was sharp, expectant, annoyed. “What’s this I heard about some of the children in your congregation, playing sinful card games? What do you aim to do about it, boy? I didn’t hand over my flock to have it torn asunder by sloth!” 

“I have it under control, Father . . . I swear I do!” Eliot straightened the tie he was wearing, as if his father could see it was crooked over the phone line. “In fact, I’m writing a new sermon right now, a good one, and I think it’s really going to have an impact--” 

“Sometimes I wonder, Eliot,” his father broke in, “If you understand the importance of the gift I gave you when my ticker sprung a gear. I’ve heard tell some folks have left the church to attend services up the other Baptist house of worship, over near the old Muddy Creek Bridge. That true? Eh?” 

“I--” Eliot pushed a hand through his short hair and winced as his fingers throbbed with heat and pain. “I haven’t heard those rumors, but it seems to me that the pews are as full as ever--” 

“Seems? Seems, the boy says to me! How’re you gonna feed your wife after the church fails? You gotta know, boy! You gotta count your flock every Sunday and log them numbers, like a good reverend would do! It’s lazy, boy, it’s lazy behavior and I won’t abide it!” 

“Father--” 

“You always were the slothful one, Eliot. Your brothers went out, learned a trade, found themselves their own wives! You? Well, I had to do it all for you! I handed you a future, wrapped up pretty with a ribbon, and you’re wasting the opportunity! 

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut. When his father went on one of his rants it always made his bowels feel weak and caused pain behind his eyes. He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, waiting for his turn to speak. 

“You there, boy? I can hear you breathin’!” 

“I’m here, yes. Father, please don’t worry about the kids in my congregation, I have it under control! I’m going to speak to the parents this Sunday--Eugenia knows which children are playing this game--and I think my sermon is going to open some eyes.” 

Josiah Waugh grunted. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it, boy. Tell Eugenia to cook up me a meatloaf, I’m damn sick of canned goods.” A pause. “Hasn’t been much of a good feed around here since your Ma passed.” 

“You could always come live with us, Father,” Eliot replied. Another grunt. 

“You know I aim to die in the house I was born in. It’s what the Lord wants!” 

“Yessir. I’ll tell her.” Eliot ran a hand over his stomach as it complained again. “Thank you for your guidance.” 

“See that you follow it.” The line went dead in Eliot’s hand a moment later and he rose to hang up the receiver. Eugenia came to the archway that connected the kitchen to the den, wringing both hands against a worn cotton dish towel. Goats capered across its surface and Eliot stared at them for nearly thirty seconds until his wife spoke. 

“Eliot? What’s wrong? Eliot?” 

He blinked and shook his head 

“Sorry, dear. Just thinking about something my father said on the phone. You have the names of those boys that were playing at magic?” 

“Yes, I can write them down for you if’n you want.” 

“Bring them down when you can,” Eliot nodded as he headed back toward the basement steps. “And Father says to make him a meatloaf. I’ll take it to him after services on Sunday.” 

“I’ll need to go to the market.” 

“Fine . . . I’ll give you a check when you come down with those names.” Eliot said as he ascended the basement stairs. His banker’s lamp cast fingers of light across his sermon, which was marked with editing flags and notes in red ink, his Bible sitting nearby, the edges aligned with the left corner of his desk. His mother had given it to him on his 12th birthday--it had his family tree inked on the inside of one cover and his full name, ELIOT ISSAC WAUGH, stamped in gold foil on the back. He usually paused to admire the Bible’s soft leather cover, which never caught the light of his lamp the same way twice, but his mind kept wandering back to his wife’s dish towel. 

_ Those goats _ , Eliot thought to himself.  _ What was it about them? _ He sat back down at his desk, frowning as he chased the image. He closed his eyes to concentrate further and an image flashed through his mind, unbidden--a young man with tawny hair and dark eyes. Eliot’s eyes snapped open, wide and stunned behind his glasses. 

“Q--” 

A bolt of pain dug razors into his brain and dragged them across his frontal lobe. The pain was so extreme that Eliot couldn’t even cry out. He sagged back in the big leather chair, twitching, a listless trickle of urine staining the inner thigh of his pressed pants. The agony released its hold by degrees, and nearly thirty minutes passed before the young man felt he could sit up. He blinked, his vision clearing. 

_ Must have been the stress of talking to Father, _ he thought to himself as he rubbed a hand over his face.  _ One of these days I’m going to stroke out trying to please him!  _

Knowing he would get no more writing done that evening, Eliot rose and made his way up the steps. He paused at the final riser, listening for his wife. The  _ Family Feud t _ heme song could be heard from the den, and Eliot slipped up the stairs that led to their bedroom as Steve Harvey greeted the audience over its whooping and hollering. Although Eliot couldn’t see his wife, he knew she was settled into her old blue recliner, a pile of knitting in her lap and a stack of Milano cookies within easy reach. 

He continued up the steps, rubbing his forehead, the goats and the image of the young man erased from his mind. 

***

Margo hurried down the hallway of her dormitory floor, ignoring the sounds of laughter, music and the occasional shout to keep it down, some of us are studying, thank you, from the other dorm rooms and unlocked her door. Her roommate Connie, a sallow girl who didn’t speak much and spent a lot of time with a knot of girls who looked like extras from a My Chemical Romance video, wouldn’t be in, giving Margo the room to herself. She shut and locked the door behind her and took a white pharmacy bag from her coat as she cleared off her desk with the other hand. 

“I’m going to show them!” She said to herself, dumping the bag out onto the desk. eyeshadow palette, tubes of lipstick, mascara, and jars of foundation clattered out, along with a variety of facial masks and two tubes of maximum-strength acne cream. “I can be beautiful if I just put some effort into it!” She picked up one of the face masks and examined it. “Let’s hope avocado is as good for my skin as it is in a dip!” She tore open the package and skimmed the directions before applying the mask, letting it sit as she sifted through her makeup cache and set up the round mirror she’d bought along with it. Although she usually avoided mirrors and didn’t care to see her reflection most of the time, it would be difficult to perfect a makeup style without one. 

Over the next hour, Margo tried two different facial masks and worked on applying foundation with the help of a few online videos. As she spread the foundation over her skin and hid some of her acne, a quiet voice inside her head began to ask her if all this change for the benefit of other people was worth her time. 

“Fuck off,” she whispered to it as she opened a tube of lipstick and began to experiment. The stuff felt thick on her lips and she frowned before wiping it away. “Ugh . . .” She glanced over at her phone and switched to another video to follow its instructions. As she did, an ad popped up for a matching game with a variety of unicorns. She lowered her hand, the lipstick forgotten, as she watched the unicorns shimmer and race across the screen, their horns glimmering. An image flickered through her mind--the tip of a unicorn’s horn, black and melting across a map of a place that looked like something out of the inner sleeve of a Tolkien novel. A hand, large but elegant, the finger adorned with glittering rings, reached for her. 

“Eliot!” She screamed, jabbing one hand out. It struck the makeup mirror, which crashed to the floor. Pain lanced through her head, as if a small animal with long, curved claws had pounced on her brain and dug into her cerebrum. She lurched from her chair, her inner ear spinning like a dervish. She managed to make it to her bed, whimpering as the pain slowly began to subside. She threw an arm over her eyes to block out the room’s light. 

“What the hell,” she moaned, scrabbling at the face mask she wore until it peeled away. She dropped it into the trash as she fought a bout of nausea. The name she’d shouted was already eluding her, as was the image of the melting unicorn’s horn. Unable to process the incident, Margo rolled over to face the wall and closed her eyes. She was asleep a few moments later, her slumber deep and dreamless. 


	7. Part Two: Mirror Images, Chapter 7

“This is hella dangerous, you realize.”   
Penny glanced over at Kady as they crept along the edge of the Flying Forest. Julia walked with them, scanning the trees for any sign of their quarry. Penny carried a rope of woven silk and silver fibers, one end tied into a lariat.   
“Yeah, I got that when sloth boy told us trying to capture a baby unicorn would probably get us killed.”   
“We were lucky Rafe was able to convince Abigail to give us audience at all,” Julia replied. “She’s not exactly the most social creature.”   
“Are we sure that enchanted rope is going to work? And what if we don’t see a baby unicorn?” Kady asked. Penny sighed.   
“The sloth said baby unicorn colts wander off when the moon is full--something about the light gives them a kind of wanderlust.” He glanced up at the sky, where the full moon was rising over the tops of the trees. “It’s our best chance of catching one.”   
“And if the parents gouge us to death before we can ask them anything?” Kady asked, and Penny frowned.   
“Then I guess we’re dead.”   
“Wow, because that’s not putting all our fucking eggs into one basket!”   
“Shhh!” Penny paused as the moon climbed to its zenith. The world seemed to pause, as it did for the daily eclipse, and Julia’s skin broke into shivers as something silver-blue pranced out of the forest. It had a floppy tail and ivory toothbrush mane. A small iridescent horn glinted in the moonlight and it gave a whistling whinney as it reared up and then kicked its long rear legs in a joyous buck. Penny lifted the lariat as he flashed back to the Trials, where Quentin had captured that wild horse for Margo and earned himself a bloody nose in the process.   
I hated junior cowboy camp . . .   
An unexpected twinge of something--regret, worry--poked at Penny’s chest and he began to swing the lariat. The unicorn romped and whirled, its youth and the bright moonlight making him fearless. Penny crept closer and snapped the lariat forward, and it looped over the colt’s head. Penny pulled the loop tight and the unicorn gave an outraged squeal, its violet eyes rolling until the whites gleamed in the moonlight. It charged Penny and he ran in the other direction, trying to keep the rope taut.   
“Shit!”   
“Don’t let go, Penny!” Kady called as she grabbed Julia’s hands and they cast together, chanting in unison. A flow of golden sigils poured from their hands and swirled over the unicorn before they dropped into the shape of a cage. The colt bared its teeth and kicked at the glowing bars, which glowed with scrolled magic runes. Penny tied the free end of the lariat to one of the bars, flinching as the unicorn tried to bite him.   
“Hey, whoa! Jesus, take it easy!” He said to the outraged animal, and it gave another high-pitched call that reminded Penny of the five o’clock whistle that used to sound from the top of the volunteer fire department hall back in his hometown. He tussled with it, and then Julia cleared her throat.   
“Uhm . . . Penny . . .”   
The traveler looked over his shoulder and both his heart and stomach did isometrics. A circle of unicorns surrounded them, their coats gleaming in the moonlight. The largest of them, with feathering on his fetlocks and a spiral horn that ended, in Penny’s view, a deadly sharp point. The creature lowered its head, nostrils flaring wide and ringed with moisture.   
“Oh God,” Kady groaned, and Julia strode past her. She flung her arms over her head.   
“Stop!” She commanded the unicorn. It raised its head, the ivory muzzle pulling back to reveal powerful teeth.   
“You dare to command me, Child of Earth?”   
“We don’t want to harm your baby, but if you kill us, that magic cage will shrink and crush it!” She cut a glance at Penny. “We just need information! Please, it’s about the Fillorian royals, they’ve all vanished and we’re trying to find out why!”   
The unicorn tossed its head.   
“Release the child from that cage, and you will have the information you seek.”   
“How do we know we can trust you?” Kady asked.   
“I might ask you the same!”   
“Please . . . the people missing aren’t just monarchs, they’re our friends. One of them is pregnant--” She glanced at the colt. “We can’t let the child come to any harm!”   
The unicorn blew through its nose in a thoughtful manner.   
“Very well. Come with us.”   
Julia turned and dismantled the cage with a wave of her hand. The colt reared and ran to its mother’s side, where it glared at Penny and parried its small horn at him. Penny raised a hand in supplication.   
“Sorry, little man.”   
The colt tossed the lariat free and it landed at Penny’s feet. He rolled it up and stuffed it in his belt. Julia smiled.   
“I’m Julia . . . this is Kady and Penny.”   
The unicorn lifted its chin.   
“I am Arrgus.”   
“It’s nice to meet you.” Julia bowed her head. “And I’m sorry we had to do this. We were kind of desperate.”   
“Indeed. Come with us, and you will find the answers you seek.”   
The humans fell in line behind Arrgus as the circle of unicorns broke up around them. Before Penny, Kady, and Julia could step into the Flying Forest, one of the younger unicorns, her coat a wash of blue and ivory, darted in between them and the large stallion, herded them backward, and teleported away with them before any could utter a word. Arrgus turned his head and one hoof pawed the earth, tearing up the sod until it flew.   
“Arieeaulla!” He called his daughter’s name in fury as the other unicorns fled back into the forest. 

***

Penny had spent the last few months traveling, both in astral and in his physical form, but being teleported by the magic of a unicorn was like nothing he’d ever felt before. His skin tingled and it felt like he was being borne along on a cloud. It was over much too soon and he found himself in a glade with Kady and Julia. A waterfall chimed nearby, and the air was perfumed with the smell of multiple blooming blossoms.   
“What the hell was that?” Kady asked, and the young female stepped out of a copse of bushes.   
“Forgive me, Children of Earth, but we had to get away quickly.”   
“Away?” Julia asked. “I don’t understand, aren’t those your people? Weren’t they going to help us?”   
The unicorn’s tail flicked over her withers.   
“Your High King and queen came to my father for help as well. That is why they’re missing.”   
“Maybe you could fill in some blanks for us?” Penny asked, and the young unicorn’s head drooped.   
“I am ashamed of my part in this. I thought it was for the best . . . I wanted to please my father. So I allowed myself to be hunted by the High King and took him to see my father, as he commanded me.”   
“He commanded you?” Kady asked.   
“Yes. Forgive me--I am Ari, and Arrgus is my father.”   
“Tell us what you mean,” Penny said as he took a seat on a nearby fallen log. “What part did you have in this, and where did Margo and Eliot go?”   
“For eons, my people have worshipped their creator, the goddess Amber. She is the sister of Ember and Umber but was exiled to the mirror universe because of a physical imperfection. The brothers could not abide her and sent her to a mirror universe, one she cannot escape. Still, we continue to patronize her because what else can be done for one who creates you?”   
“So Eliot and Margo came to you and the other unicorns for help and you betrayed them?” Penny frowned. “Are they dead?”   
“No. But my father used his magic to send them to that same universe, where they will live lives filled with contradictions and different from the ones they knew.”   
“We found what looked like a melted unicorn horn and some spell ingredients back at the castle,” Julia said.   
“My father gave them the horn, but it wasn’t real. Magic concealed that fact.” She looked away. “I wanted to tell them, but since I was foaled, I have been taught to be loyal to Amber.”   
“So what made you change your mind?” Kady asked, and Ari tossed her head.   
“Loyalty has made my family a herd of liars and murderers. I cannot abide it any longer, even if it means being exiled myself.”   
“So that horn--” Penny began, and the unicorn made a sound almost like a sigh.   
“Yes. My father knew it would send your royals to that mirror universe, where they will go mad and die.   
“Will you help us?” Julia asked, and Ari paced in a tight circle.   
“I cannot reverse what Father did. I am young and my magic is limited. However . . . I can take you to someone who may be able to take you to the mirror universe and allow you to keep your own identities. Only in that way can you bring your royals back into this world and prevent the death of their child.”   
“How do we know we can trust you?” Kady asked, and Ari gave a soft whicker.   
“I know what you must think of my kind for betraying you. But do humans not have loyalty to their own gods? Have they not killed millions in war in the name of a god? When you have given your oath and your people are firm in their worship, what is one to do?”   
“Hard to argue that,” Kady sighed, and Ari lifted her chin.   
“I will give you a blood oath. It is the strongest that I know, and that you understand.” She trotted over to Penny, who looked up at her. “You carry a knife on your belt, Traveler. Take it, and draw blood from the side of my neck.”   
Penny stood.   
“Uh . . . are you sure about this?”   
“It is the only way you will accept my oath.” She bent her head slightly. “Draw it.”   
Penny glanced over at Julia and Kady. Kady nodded.   
“Do it, Penny.”   
Penny muttered as he drew the small dagger from his belt, one he’d taken to carrying while in Fillory to protect himself from the land’s aggressive and often hungry plants. He made a small cut near the arch of her neck, and Ari nodded.   
“Press your hand to the wound, all of you,” she instructed, and all three magicians did so, letting the iridescent blood smear their fingers. The wound healed a moment later and Ari turned to face them. “It is done. We must hurry, your friends do not have much time before the mirror universe destroys their minds.” 

***

The touch of the lampreys woke Quentin out of an uncomfortable doze, the straw beneath him drying out and poking his naked skin in a dozen different places. The creatures were prodding his belly as Sebastian moved around within. Quentin kept his eyes shut, feigning sleep,   
God, please, don’t let them hurt my baby . . .   
“Now now, my lovelies . . . you know it is not yet time. I know you have eggs to lay, but the child must come out first. I cannot break us out of this universe until it is born. Once I consume it, its magic ill give me all the power I need! It will drive this magician mad, as this universe will the others, and when we are finally free, Fillory, the Neitherlands, and the worlds beyond will be under my control! I will rule, as I should have before my brothers crippled me!”   
Quentin bit his lower lip to keep from gasping aloud. He knew that Amber would likely kill Sebastian shortly after his birth, he had no idea the goddess planned to eat him!   
But Reynard and the Beast . . . they did the same kind of thing . . . oh God, I need to get out of here! Eliot, Margo . . . where are they? Why haven’t they come for me?   
Quentin sensed and smelled Amber’s strange, musty scent as she crouched next to him and rolled him onto his back. Quentin continued to play faint as she placed a hand on his belly.   
“Yes . . . soon. Another month, perhaps. Then I will cut the child from this pathetic creature and you will have your incubator and I the universe!”   
Sebastian kicked and moved in Quentin’s belly, as if he had understood the words, and Quentin wanted nothing more in that moment than to hold him and run away from this awful place. 

***

“Man, I’m not sure about this.”   
Kady turned her head as Penny murmured to her. They were walking down a gilded path lined with glittering moonstones, Julia and Ari walking ahead of them, single file.   
“Neither am I, but I don’t think we have much of a choice at this point. Eliot and Margo are trapped in that universe and Quentin and his baby are going to be dead soon if we don’t act. I know Arrgus betrayed us all but I think Ari really is sorry about it. We have to trust her.”   
The path took a sharp bend to the right and they passed over a narrow wooden bridge before coming to a thick of curtain of willow branches. To Penny, they looked like beckoning fingers as they moved in the breeze. Ari twisted her slender neck to look at her traveling companions.   
“You must go inside . . . the creature you need to see is residing there.”   
“You? Not we?” Penny asked, and Ari shook her head.   
“This is as far as I can take you. I must return to the herd and face my father for what I have done.”   
“Thank you,” Julia said, holding out both her hands. Ari rested her muzzle in them a moment and her violet eyes reflected the young magician’s image.   
“I wish you luck and good travels.” She whirled and was gone a moment later, her cloven hooves making almost no sound. Penny scowled.   
“Okay, now I’m really unsure about this!”   
“It makes sense, Penny,” Julia replied as she moved toward the willow curtain. “Ari knows what she risked to bring us here and she can’t help us find the mirror universe. Come on.” She pushed a few of the long vines aside. Penny glanced up as he pictured them coming to life and dropping down to cocoon him and the girls, wrapping them up, stealing their air.   
“Penny!” Julia half-whispered to him. “Come on!”   
“I hate this,” Penny hissed as he followed Julia and Kady through the curtain. They stepped into a perfectly circular glade dominated by a pool of bright water, the surface of which was so still it looked like a large mirror. Trees ringed the pool but there was no birdsong or any whir of insects’ wings. Julia stepped toward the pool and crouched down to look into the water.   
“Be careful!” Kady warned her, and even as she spoke, a face appeared where Julia’s reflection should have stared back at her. The water moved like mercury, thick and almost slithery. The visage didn’t break the surface of the water; rather, it seemed to float just beneath it. Silver eyes stared up at Julia from under ebony hair, the face’s upper lip graced with an equally dark, wavy mustache that curled at the end, making her flash on the doorman from The Wizard of Oz.   
“Julia Wicker,” the apparition spoke, yet its lips didn’t move. It held her gaze, though, and the young magician seemed to feel more than hear its words. “Welcome.”   
“Who are you?” Julia asked, and the large silver eyes blinked in a benevolent way.   
“I am called Malloson. I guard this entrance to a mirror universe and keep dark forces from entering Fillory.  
Kady crouched next to Julia.   
“Greetings, Malloson.”   
“I welcome you, Kady Orloff-Diaz. And you, Penny Adiyodi.” The creature’s eyes rolled toward Penny, who then approached the pool to face the guardian.   
“Uh, yeah . . . hi.” He raised a hand.   
“You said you keep evil forces out of Fillory . . . but what if we need to enter the mirror universe? Is that permitted?” Julia asked, and the silver eyes stared.   
“Why would you want to enter that universe, Julia Wicker? No good lives there.”   
“Maybe not, but good is trapped there--three of our friends. Fillorian royalty, and one of our kings carries a child--a child of two kings, both magicians and Children of Earth. They’re all in serious danger and we want to find them. Please, can you take us there?”   
“I do not believe you know what you ask,” Malloson replied, the full mouth twisting into a frown. “Those who go into that universe are sent into mirror lives that drive them mad. They are left to the visions they live, and no one has ever returned as they used to be.”   
“What a comfort,” Penny muttered, and Kady elbowed him.   
“Shh!”   
“We understand and choose the danger,” Julia said. “Please . . . take us there.”   
“Would it help you to know what I saw when I projected myself there?” Penny asked. “Our--uh--our friend--” He shot Kady a look as she smiled a little, “he was abducted from Whitespire from some goddess named Amber. She was a sister of the ram gods, Ember and Umber but there was some kind of altercation and--”   
“Stop!” Malloson roared, and the pool’s surface rippled. “It was more than an altercation, Traveler! You know not of what you speak!”   
“But I saw her!” Penny argued, ignoring Julia’s warning touch to his arm. “I went there, she’s got these creepy creatures keeping Quentin prisoner!”   
“I understand and believe the sights you saw,” the apparition replied. “However, you do not understand the true story of Amber and her brothers.”   
“But the unicorns--” Julia began, and the water god snorted, his mustache quivering.   
“The one-horned horses only know what they were fed--false pablum by the very goddess that created them!” The silver eyes narrowed slightly. “Sit, magicians, and learn the true story of the ram goddess Amber and why she was sent to the mirror universe.”


	8. Part Two: Mirror Images, Chapter 8

Ember and Umber, the twin ram gods, were born of light from one of the brightest stars in the night sky. They were beloved by the old gods above all others, spoiled and indulged since birth. Unlike other very young gods, they were permitted to create a world of their own and add whichever creatures they saw fit. The brothers named their world Fillory and spent eons perfecting their creation. During this time, a sister, Amber, was born from the same glimmering star. As she grew, she became jealous of her brothers’ world and begged of the old gods that she be allowed to add her own creatures to Fillory. It was Amber that created unicorns and talking horses, but as time went by and Ember and Umber began to welcome Children of Earth into Fillory to rule, this angered their sister, who saw Fillory as their playground. She resented every human who claimed a throne and began to create creatures with a taste for their flesh: lampreys, carnivorous plants, giant insects, and even trolls and ogres. Amber set them upon the Children of Earth whenever she could, but when Ember and Umber discovered she was trying to kill those they intended to have rule, arguments among the siblings broke out. The old gods tired of their constant bickering and decreed that the Children of Earth be allowed to rule the land without interference from any of them: the creatures and inhabitants who had now populated the land, such as those who built Castle Whitespire, could worship the ram gods but live their lives with free will. This infuriated Amber, who saw Fillory as her property, one her spoiled brothers could never appreciate fully. 

It was during this time that Fillory entered its Golden Era. The four thrones were occupied by young Children of Earth who were good and kind, royals who wanted nothing more to help the land thrive. They planted fields and orchards and used their newfound human magic to help them grow. The old gods watched over the process but did not interfere: they knew from experience that these creatures could be resourceful and needed no direct input from gods, new or old. High King Cain Wise and his chosen High Queen, Siobhan White, ruled with a kind of confidence that was like to drive Amber insane with jealousy and resentment: while her brothers seemed to enjoy they sojourn from Fillory, the goddess wanted nothing more than to control the word she saw as hers. The unicorns and wild talking horse herds still worshipped her but she could not grant their prayers or accept any offerings left in her name. It galled her until one day, she could abide it no longer. She stole a powerful magic runestone from one of the old gods and used it to open a door to Fillory, one that shattered the wards the Children of Earth had put up around Whitespire. She called her lampreys and sentient, hungry plants to war and invaded the castle. The four royals fought bravely, of that there was no doubt, but soon only High King Cain remained, He fought Amber with a magic sword gifted to him by Fillory’s finest knife makers and struck a blow to the goddess’ right hoof as she aimed a kick at his head, nearly severing it. Soon after, he was felled by a fatal sting by one of Amber’s creatures, a giant wandering spider, and was devoured by the creature, as the old gods had discovered their child’s actions too late. They forced her back, her hoof dangling, the screams of the castle’s occupants like music to her ears. The runestone flew from her hand as she was banished and it hung in the Fillorian sky, where it remained from that moment on. Each day, it caused a daily eclipse that darkened Fillory as the sun reached its zenith and passed behind the circular stone. 

As Fillory mourned the loss of their Children of Earth and the thrones remained empty for over half a century, the old gods knew that Amber could no longer be trusted. They created a mirror universe, a place of countless corridors and darkness, and imprisoned Amber and her minions there. She remained there, her wounded hoof becoming deformed as it healed in a twisted position. Ember and Umber were allowed to return to Fillory, where they oversaw the arrival of new Children of Earth, the Chatwins. 

“And the rest you know,” Malloson said to the three fascinated magicians as they sat in a semicircle around his pool. “Rupert Chatwin became High King, and his brother Martin became something terrible--an abomination--as he sacrificed his very humanity to remain in Fillory.” 

Julia nodded, a memory clear in her hazel eyes. 

“He became the Beast . . . he tried to kill us all when we discovered that Fillory was real.” She sighed. “I’m ashamed to say that I interfered when Q and the others formed a plan to destroy him.” She ran a hand over her face. “I wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind then.” 

“It was our friend Alice that finally defeated the Beast, but she went Niffin in the process,” Kady put in. 

“The tale is well known in Fillory,” Malloson acknowledged. “King Quentin was wounded and carries the battle scars to this very day.” 

“The unicorns . . . do they even know the truth about their creators?” Penny asked. 

“The elders may, but they have rewritten her story and buried the truth. The ram gods may not have been completely benevolent and cared less about Children of Earth as time went on, but they were not responsible for their sister’s banishment to the mirror universe.” Malloson’s silver eyes scanned the group. “It is a terrifying place, one made by the old gods, and created without mercy.” 

“We have to find our friends,” Julia replied. “Please, I think you’re the only one who can let us in.” 

“Very well,” the guardian said at last. “But know this: once you are inside, I cannot assist you. I am merely the guardian of this place and not its master. You will be at the mercy of the old gods, and they are unlikely to give you any quarter.” Multiple shimmering hands made of silver broke the water’s surface and reached out to each magician, palm up. “Come . . . you may not have much time left.” 

Penny, Kady, and Julia exchanged fatalistic glances before each took a hand. Their bodies began to turn the same shimmering, wobbly texture as the pool, like glasses being filled, before the hands pulled them under the liquid’s surface and into the mirror universe. 

##  Interlude III

The Whiteland Baptist Church of the Holy Redeemer thundered with organ music and the sound of hundreds of voices rising up together as they sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” The people in the pews fanned themselves with whatever paper they could find--envelopes, tracts, old water and gas bill receipts pulled from purses and pockets--as the temperature in the room rose. Eliot stood at the pulpit, dressed in his blue pastor’s robe, his long frame rocking to the music. Eugenia and his father stood in the front pew, his father’s piercing grey eyes watching his son’s every move. At one time, the old man might have been handsome, but a lack of sweetness and humor had turned the corners of his mouth down in a permanent frown. His nose was prominent and hawklike, his thinning dark hair shot through with silver. Eugenia fanned herself as she sang, her plump cheeks florid. The choir finished the song and his organist, a woman who had been playing at the church since Eliot was a child and had since grown as tough and thin as a strip of beef jerky, blue-rinsed curls tight against her scalp, sat down and gave a brief cough borne of unfiltered cigarettes before she sat. 

“Thank you, choir, thank you, Widow Sloan.” Eliot paused and glanced down at his sermon. “Be seated.” 

The congregation sat with a rustle of collective Sunday best. Eliot could feel his father’s eyes on him, along with Eugenia’s expectant gaze. 

“Today is Sunday, the lord’s day,” Eliot began, giving his flock a sweeping glance. “Yet my mind and heart are troubled by some news that has reached me recently, news that concerns some of the young people of this congregation. It’s been said that some of them have been having dalliances with the devil--becoming seduced by black magic!” He opened his Bible to a marked page. “And the Lord said, ‘ “Do not turn to mediums or necromancers; do not seek them out, and so make yourselves unclean by them: I am the Lord your God.” 

“Amen!” One of the women near the back cried, and Eliot turned a page. 

“A man or a woman who is a medium or a necromancer shall surely be put to death. They shall be stoned with stones; their blood shall be upon them.” He pinned one of the offending boys as he spoke and watched his lips tremble. 

_ Nothing like putting the fear of God into a naughty child _ , Eliot thought to himself. “And what does Leviticus say of those who practice magic and open their minds to spellwork? “If a person turns to mediums and necromancers, whoring after them, I will set my face against that person and will cut him off from among his people!’” Eliot slammed his fist against the pulpit as he spoke. “You children who play these magic games turn yourselves toward the clutches of the devil! You will not recognize Him until it is too late, and He will consume you! He will take your idle hands and cause them to do his work!” Eliot paused and turned to the page of names Eugenia had given him. “Eric Wentz, Homer Tann, Jeremy Kozak, and Billy Fannick!” The boys jumped at the sound of their names being called, as if Eliot had given them each a jolt of electricity. “Join me here at the pulpit, and under the eyes of God!” 

A brief murmur went through the crowd as the boys rose, glancing at their parents for supplication but finding none. They approached Eliot single file, climbing up onto the stage, and he spun a finger at them. “Turn around . . . face your families, your neighbors, your teachers! Admit to what you have done!” 

“But Pastor Waugh,” Billy Fannick spoke up, pushing a thatch of red hair from his eyes, “we ain’t done nothing bad! It’s just games!” 

“We ain’t hurt no one!” Homer Tann agreed, and Eliot glared at each boy in turn. 

“You have hurt your community with these games! As your pastor, it is for me to correct you if your parents will not!” He withdrew a wooden paddle from his robes. “Bend over, each of you!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father nodding. One of the mothers jumped up from her seat. 

“Pastor Waugh, no! I don’t need you to paddle my boy!” 

“Your boy is dabbling in magic, woman! If he is not shown the way, he opens the door to the devil!” Eliot began to whack each boy’s upturned rear with the paddle. Half of the congregation gasped, the other half cheered. Eugenia watched, her eyes wide. Eliot gave each boy five firm whacks, until each was sniveling and whining, and then sent them back to their parents. Billy Fannick gave Eliot a sullen look over his shoulder and Eliot’s hand tightened around the paddle. 

_ I’m going to have to correct that one again before the week’s out, _ he thought to himself, then set the paddle aside. “I know this lesson seems like a hard one,” he continued to the crowd at large, “but sometimes hard lessons are necessary when it comes to ducking the devil and his wicked ways! Hopefully these boys will remember the sting of God’s justice if they ever feel the urge to pick up magic card decks or play at being necromancers! Pray with me that they turn away from this dangerous path and return to the lord!” Eliot closed his eyes and raised his hands over his head. “Almighty God, we ask in your name that you guide these wayward boys back on the path of goodness and righteousness, that they take up your cross and do deeds in your name, that they see your holy light and shun the devil! Amen!” 

“Amen!” The crowd called back, and the organ started up again. Eliot wiped a hand across his forehead and his heart glowed with hope as he looked down at his father and saw him smiling in approval. 

***

Margo’s bedside alarm gave a muted click before it began to call in a harsh buzzing manner. She groaned and reached over to slam it off as her consciousness settled into wakefulness and she realized that not only was it morning--it was Monday morning. She glanced over to see Connie’s bed was empty but the blankets were rumpled. 

_ Probably off worshipping Gerard Way or sacrificing a goat to Fall Out Boy or some shit _ . She threw her covers aside and shoved her feet into a pair of worn slippers, the tops decorated with kitten faces, as she adjusted her nightie and slid from the bed. The sun streamed through a nearby window and Margo went to the dresser, muttering to herself as she went to the mirror. 

“Hope those stupid face maks are worth the mon--” She blinked at her reflection, rubbed her eyes, then looked again. The image remained the same. “No,” she murmured, raising her hand to the left side of her face, where several moles had appeared overnight. One sprouted several thick black hairs. She shook her head. “No, no . . . this isn’t--” She reached down and overturned her trash basket and pawed through used tissues, a few empty Coke cans, and wadded-up paper until she found the face mask wrappers. She turned each one over, breathing hard, as she re-read the directions and warnings. None mentioned the sudden development of moles, and she tossed the wrappers down to clap her hands over her face. “I have a class in 45 minutes!” She wailed. “What am I going to do?” Her gaze fell on the scatter of makeup on her desk and she rattled through the foundation. “I’ll cover them up. I’ll cover them, and no one will see, and I’ll worry about it after!” She began to slather foundation over the moles, tears coming to her eyes as the long hairs protruded out from under the cream. “Come on, come on . . . “ she added one layer, then another, until her face felt heavy with the stuff. “Goddamned face masks! I ought to sue!” She threw some clothes on and added a wide-brimmed hat to shade her face before she picked up her backpack and headed out to campus, a headache already forming in both temples. 

***

Penny, Kady, and Julia moved through thick, silvery water, the guardian’s hands clamped around theirs. All three magicians found that his touch suspended their necessity to breathe, and it was as silent as a Victorian tomb in the pool. There were no fish, no plants, and no insects--only the silent water. Penny felt like they were heading downward more than across the pool, and then a large circle of negative space appeared before them, Molloson pulled them forward and they floated in a circle, holding hands. 

_ This is the entrance to the mirror universe. I cannot accompany you, nor can I take you to your friends. You must find them on your own, with your magic.  _ The guardian’s eyes widened and silver liquid strands poured from them, where they braided together to make a long rope.  _ Tie this around your waists . . . it will prevent any of you from entering an alternate reality, such as the ones that now hold your friends prisoner.  _

_ How will we find them? How do we know where to go?  _ Julia asked, and the guardian motioned at the circle. 

_ This universe has an endless number of realities that change as the captive’s mind becomes altered, but there are clues. Each universe has a door, and on those doors is a mark; however, it will look different to each of you, as it will appear as a symbol of how you define that individual. Focus on them as you pass, as it is the only clue you will receive.  _

_ Thank you,  _ Julia replied as she wove the silver rope around herself and then Kady and Penny. Molloson began to ascend, letting go of their hands as he did so. 

_ Farewell, Children of Earth.  _

Julia moved toward the circle, holding her hands out in front of her. The water seemed to drain away instantly and she gave a surprised cry as some kind of magical gravitational pull took hold of her and sucked her inside. The rope held and she, Kady and Penny grunted as they landed in a heap on a broad catwalk lined with silver edging, which offered the only light. The sky overhead was polished onyx, and as the three young magicians got to their feet, tethered together with the silver rope, they saw the catwalk was lined with doors. Each was identical--black with a slender silver handle--and they seemed to stretch on for miles. Julia glanced back at Kady and Penny. 

“I guess we better start walking.” 

“Which direction?” Kady asked, and Julia sighed. 

“I guess we flip a coin.” 

“I vote we pick a number between one and ten,” Penny spoke up. “Because it seems like flipping a coin in this place might cause either it or us to implode or some shit.” He eyed the doors. Julia’s expression went both thoughtful and annoyed. 

“All right, fine--uh, hold it a second! You can read minds!” 

“Then I’ll think of the number,” Penny declared. “Okay, ready.” 

“Seven,” Kady guessed. 

“Two,” Julia countered. 

“It was one,” Penny nodded to Julia, and Kady frowned. 

“You always think of seven!” 

“I know, but I felt like I should mix it up.” 

“Sir Mix-A-Lot over here,” Kady rolled her eyes. 

“Shh, the both of you!” Julia scolded them. “If this is a world of opposites, then I’m going to go the alternate way I would have chosen, Seems to make sense.” She turned left and tugged her companions along. Kady shot Penny another annoyed glance and he gave her self-defensive shrug. They walked for what seemed like hours, passing door after identical door. 

“Guys, look at these doors,” Julia murmured, careful not to touch any of them. “What do you see?” 

“Most of them are blank,” Penny replied. “Or at least they seem to be? This one--” He stopped. “Do you see this shit?” 

“What?” Kady asked. 

“It’s Eliot’s crown! Don’t you see it?” 

Kady shook her head. 

“I see two wine bottles crossing each other.” She looked over at Julia, who was staring up at the door. Tears coursed down her cheeks. 

“Jules?” She asked, and Julia swallowed hard as she stared up at the mark: an outline of a man with long hair, a delicate crown, and a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. 

“I think we found Eliot.” 


	9. Part Two: Mirror Images, Chapter 9

_ I’m going insane here.  _

Quentin lay on his right side, facing the cavern wall. Amber had left him food--some tough jerky and a few soft pieces of spotted potato, but Quentin had little interest in eating or drinking. He stroked a hand over his stomach in slow circular motions. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said at last. “I let you down . . . and there’s nothing I can do to protect you here. There’s so much I wish you could see and experience.” He glanced around the cave as his fingers jerked in the metal restraints that kept his joints locked. “I couldn’t wait for you to meet your papa, and your godmother Margo . . . they would have loved you more than their own lives. Even Penny and Jules and Kady.” Tears came to Quentin’s eyes and he blinked them away, as he had every day since Amber had brought him to the cavern. “I wish you could tell me what you wanted me to do, Sebastian. I want to give you a chance at the life you deserve, but at the same time, knowing what Amber has planned for you . . . I can’t help wonder if I should free us both the only way I can.” His dark eyes scanned the cavern for a weapon but saw none. “It’s funny, you know?” Quentin lowered his voice. “All the times I thought about ending it, all the notes I left and then came back to collect and burn when I couldn’t go through with it . . . wanting to kill myself the night Alice left . . . and now all I want to do is live because it’ll let you live too.” He got one elbow under him and shuffled to a sitting position to eat a few bites of the jerky. The potatoes smelled earthy and unwashed so Quentin left them, eating most of the jerky before he drank from the bowl of tepid water the goddess had left him. Sebastian began to kick and move as the nutrients reached him and Quentin pressed a gentle hand against the movements as he began to sing a song Eliot had been serenading the baby with from the very start: 

“Two and two are four, four and four are eight, eight and eight are sixteen, sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two . . . inch worm, inch worm, measuring the marigolds. you and your arithmetic, you'll probably go far . . . “ Quentin repeated the song over and over, rocking to comfort himself as much as his son, until both of them slept. 

##  Interlude IV

“And they shall be cast into a fiery pit of sulfur, and no one shall hide his face from the wrath of the Lord on that day!” 

The pews in the church seemed to shake with Pastor Eliot’s words as his flock traded nervous glances with each other across the vestry. The pastor was now into his third hour of another sermon on the evils of magic, and his temples were beaded with sweat, his glasses askew. Some of the younger children in the crowd squirmed and fussed as the sermon ran far into lunchtime and their parents glanced at their watches. Only Eliot’s father and wife seemed unbothered, punctuating his words with an occasional “Amen!” and “Yes, Lord!” 

Finally Eliot paused and lowered his head, his lean shoulders heaving. 

“The service is now ended,” he said, his voice cracked and hoarse. “Go in peace.” 

The congregation got to its collective feet and headed for the door. Eliot watched them go instead of going to receive handshakes and accolades over his sermon and his eyes narrowed. Eugenia climbed the riser that led to the pulpit. 

“Eliot? Are you ready to go home?” She asked, and Eliot turned away from her. 

“No. Take Father home and make him some lunch. I have work to do.” 

“But Eliot, you worked so late last night, I don’t recollect what time you came to bed--” 

“The work I do for the sake of my flock is none of your business, woman!” Eliot snapped, and Eugenia flinched back, her eyes growing wet. 

“I only meant--” 

“I don’t care what you meant! Do as I say!” 

Eugenia nodded as she beat a retreat, but she didn’t miss her father-in-law’s approving smirk. Over the last several weeks, her husband had changed into someone she no longer recognized: he’d grown unpredictable and temperamental and last week, for the first time since they’d been married, he’d raised a hand to her when she dropped and broke one of his favorite coffee mugs while washing the dishes. He’d also stopped performing his marital duties, (which he’d always dispatched with care, every Saturday evening,) and spent more time in his basement office, filling up notebooks with enough sermons to cover a month of Sundays. Josiah approved of his son’s new attitude and offered her no comfort, so there was little she could do but remain dutiful. She left the nave with Josiah, who was already complaining about her last meatloaf not being big enough to last him the week. Eliot watched them go, the large doors shutting behind them, before he turned and headed for his private office in the undercroft. It was humid and the walls smelled faintly of mold, but it was cooler there than in the sacristy, where he sometimes sat to contemplate his sermons. He unlocked the door and went to his kneeler, where he hit his knees and looked up at the large plaster figure of Jesus on the cross. 

“Show me the way!” He said, clasping his hands in prayer. “Show me the way to cleanse this town of necromancers and charlatans and sorcerers!” His eyes gleamed with a wild zeal. “O Lord, I will scour the evil from Whiteland if you only show me the path!” 

The figure remained silent, its upturned eyes filled with agony, and Eliot’s gaze wandered to a trio of medium-sized portraits depicting popular scenes from the Bible. One was the lion and lamb laying together in a grassy meadow, the second was Adam, Eve, and the Serpent at the base of the Tree of Knowledge, and the third, which was inspired by Jonathan Edward’s “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” depicted the Lord casting unrepentant sinners into hell. Eliot stared at the painting for nearly fifteen minutes, his fevered brain working. 

“ And the people shall be as the burnings of lime: as thorns cut up shall they be burned in the fire,” he murmured as a grin spread across his face. As the people of Whiteland made sandwiches for their children, poured lemonade for friends, and put Sunday supper in the oven, the town’s pastor planned their ultimate salvation. 

***

Margo stumbled down the corridor to her dorm room, unable to hold back the sobs that racked her plump frame. Other students in the dorm watched her pass by, their expressions ranging from amusement to a kind of dry pity. She fumbled the lock open and then slammed the door behind her before throwing herself onto her bed, where more tears dampened her pillow. 

“He laughed at me,” Margo gasped out between tears. “He fucking laughed at me!” 

Margo had few allies, but one she both treasured and adored was her World History professor, Dr. Chaney. He appreciated her hard work and knack for the subject, and she often visited him during office hours, where he would share both his knowledge and cache of peppermint patties with her. Margo always felt safe during these interludes, as she knew her classmates wouldn’t dare call her names or make jokes at her expense in his presence. 

But earlier that day, when she had walked into his classroom with a smile meant only for him, (oh, and how things might be different if he wasn’t married to that frigid bitch of a chemistry teacher over at Buell Hall,) one of the basketball jocks had spied the new growths on her face despite the makeup, elbowed one of his buddies and said, “Hey, check out Marginal! The mole the merrier, I guess!” 

His friends and cronies had roared with laughter, which was bearable for someone who had been the butt of jokes for years, but as Margo slipped into her chair, she saw Dr. Chaney smirk before he turned away to write on his whiteboard, and that part of her soul that had always held the glow of gratefulness for him sputtered and died. She’d spent the rest of the class in silence, her throat thick with unshed tears, her chest throbbing with grief and hate. 

When the storm of tears passed, Margo rose and went to her desk to examine the scatter of makeup she’d left there. The astringents sat nearby and she scooped one of them up. 

_ Maybe this will help with whatever is going on _ , she thought to herself.  _ Maybe the makeup was too harsh but I can still fix it, I can fix it and tomorrow there won’t be any reason for (him)  _

_ anyone to laugh at me!  _

She poured some of the stuff into her palms and began to scrub it into her skin, as if doing so would erase her professor’s smirk from her mind. The stuff burned the moles and her acne but she applied more until the pain brought tears to her eyes. Margo then retreated to her bed, where she curled her legs to her chest. Her mind jittered with unease and she soothed it with fantasies borne of recent dreams. In them, she was a beautiful and fierce queen--everyone wanted her yet nobody, not even powerful beasts--fucked with her because she could snuff them out of existence with the flick of a finger. Her castle was elegant and its spires rotated with clockwork buried deep in the earth, and the spires themselves were blindly white. 

_ Whitespire--? _

Pain slashed across her temples and she pressed her hands to them, red sparks expanding before her eyes before the pain caused nausea to surge through her stomach. She turned and vomited into her trashcan before darkness dropped a hood over her mind. 

***

“Where the hell are we?” 

Penny, Julia, Kady had passed through the mirror door into a field of dry grass. The sun blazed overhead, and humidity made the air thick and oppressive. A dirt road meandered its way to their left, and in the distance, the metal roof of a barn glittered under the sun. Penny tugged on the rope that secured him to the two women and was relieved to find it secure. 

“It looks like farmland,” Julia replied to Kady. 

“So how do we know which way to go?” Kady asked, and Julia walked to the shoulder of the dirt road as a truck approached, its tires kicking up grey dust. She lifted a hand and the vehicle slowed. The passenger window slid down and a middle-aged woman, her hair done up in a kerchief, peered out at them. 

“You all lost?” 

“A little bit!” Julia gave her a wide smile. “We’re students on a cross country trip--what’s the closest town from here?” 

“Whiteland is just up the road a bit, about two miles. We’re headed there now if you all want to ride in the back of the truck.” She glanced at the driver, a man her age who Julia assumed to be her husband. He nodded and a toothpick tucked into the left corner of his mouth migrated to the right. 

“They don’t see the rope,” Penny murmured to Kady, who nodded. 

“Because we’re real . . . they’re not.” 

“Climb on up,” the woman said, and the three magicians obeyed. The back of the pickup was crusted with dried mud and drifts of hay.” 

“Whiteland,” Julia said as the truck continued down the road. “But where?”

“Indiana,” Penny replied as they passed a large white water tower. “Check it.” He pointed at sky-blue letters that read, WHITELAND, INDIANA WELCOMES YOU.

“This must be where Eliot grew up. Q mentioned it . . . he said that was how Eliot knew to fertilize the fields in Fillory when the magic blackouts started to happen.” 

“So the mirror universe sent him to where he grew up? I thought shit was supposed to be opposite,” Penny said, scowling as the truck hit a rut in the road and they bounced hard enough to make his teeth click together. 

The truck rolled to a stop ten minutes later and the three magicians climbed down. The woman got out of the passenger's side and smiled. 

“Good luck in your travels!” She said, and Julia cleared her throat. 

I was wondering if you could tell me . . . do you know an Eliot Waugh?” She asked, and the woman gave a surprised blink. 

“Eliot--you don’t mean Pastor Waugh, do you?” 

“Pastor Waugh?” Penny repeated, and the woman looked at him as though he might be simple. 

“Yes, Pastor Waugh! He’s the head of our church, and a very important man.” 

“Oh! Well . . . we have a message for him from an old friend and we promised we’d deliver it,” Kady forced a smile. “Can you tell us where we can find him?” 

The woman’s smile faded and she looked from her to Penny to Julia. 

“I don’t reckon he’d be happy, me telling strangers where he might be. If you stay in town till Sunday, you can see him at the church, I think that’d be alright. Joe?” She glanced at the stout man, who nodded. 

“Yep. Church.” 

“There’s a motel just down the road. Good luck, now!” The couple climbed back into their truck and rolled away, and Penny sighed. 

“This is super fucked up. This isn’t even real and we have to stay at a hotel? Look . . . this place can’t be that big. Let’s just go hunt him down and drag him out of here.” 

“I don’t think we can,” Julia sighed. “This place . . . it’s almost like a mirror maze. I think if we look for him, the deeper it will hide him.” 

“So we just wait it out?” Kady frowned, and Julia nodded. 

“I don’t think we have much choice.” 

“And what if Quentin is running out of time?” Kady countered, and pain flickered across Julia’s expression. 

“You don’t think I’m worried about him? He’s been my friend since we were nine, Kady!” 

“I didn’t say you don’t care, I said waiting might cost him time he doesn’t have!” 

“Hey, whoa . . .” Penny got between them. “I think this place is making us all a little nutso so let’s just chill a minute, ‘kay?” 

Julia glared up at him but Penny met her gaze. He raised an eyebrow, as if her attitude was proving his point for him, and she finally sighed. 

“You’re right. All right, let’s just get to the hotel. The sooner we can pull Eliot out of here, the sooner he can help us find Margo and Q.” 

***

“Your time grows short, little human. Are you prepared to face death?” 

Quentin looked up at Amber as she stood over him, grinning. He’d lost track of the days but something told him she was right--his belly was tight and heavy. Thaderos had told him that labor would likely begin naturally, and that Sebastian would be taken by C-section. 

“I don’t think you know nearly as much about me as you think,” Quentin said, not bothering to look at Amber as he spoke. “In fact, I don’t think you know anything!” 

Amber’s good hoof struck him in the right hip hard enough to draw blood. Quentin barely flinched--he’d begun unplugging himself from this reality the night before. 

“Is that right?” A hand snaked into his long hair and yanked his head up. “And what would you say if I was ready to use this?” She pulled a dagger from a belt and held it under his chin. The blade was curved, like a scythe, and Quentin lifted his eyes to the gold, sheep-like eyes of his captor. 

“I’d say I’ve faced death before, and from the likes of much scarier creatures than you.” A small, bitter smile turned the corners of his mouth upward. “So fuck you.” 

Amber snorted and slammed his head to the cavern floor as she withdrew the knife. Bright points of light exploded in Quentin’s vision but he hung onto consciousness. If he had to die along with his child and without his friends, so be it, but he wasn’t about to give this goat bitch the satisfaction of frightening him. He knew she couldn’t seriously harm him until Sebastian was ready to be born because she needed him alive, and deep in his heart, a tiny thread of hope glowed that Eliot would come for him, slaughter the goddess for daring to touch him, and take him back to their lives at Whitespire. 


	10. Part Two: Mirror Images, Chapter 10

“You’re going to the church early? But Eliot, I’ve already started breakfast--” 

“I’m not hungry.” Eliot replied to his wife as he breezed through the kitchen on his way to his pickup. He’d put the camper cab on the night before and loaded it with the supplies he would need. His bones ached with need to save his people. “And you could stand to miss a meal or two, Eugenia.” 

“Eliot!” His wife wailed, and he frowned. 

“I’d think you know gluttony was a sin, woman. I’ve given enough sermons on it.” 

His wife burst into tears, burying her face in a dishtowel, and Eliot nudged her aside as he walked outside. They all needed a hard lesson about the Lord’s truth, from his wife to his father to the children who played at being sorcerers and witches. They would receive that truth, along with the others, at the conclusion of Sunday service. 

Eliot reached the church ten minutes later. The parking lot was still empty, as morning worship was still three hours off. He unlocked the church’s shed and pulled out the wheelbarrow, which he filled with the supplies he’d brought, and wheeled them through a side door. Most of them had been easy to obtain at the farming goods store, and as a pastor, the store owner, a gangly, pockmarked man named Clarence Goodman, hadn’t questioned him. All the better: Eliot had been carrying his Smith & Wesson since the previous Sunday, when the Lord had whispered to him that personal protection was necessary from the evils that had begun to plague Whiteland, and he had few qualms about using it. 

After all, the town’s rapture was coming anyway. 

Eliot busied himself in the nave for nearly an hour until his clothing was smeared with grease and dust. He shed them, letting them fall in front of the pulpit as he grinned and wiped the sweat from his brow before stretching his arms out. 

“Happy are those who are called to His supper!” He called out, the words ringing in the nave. An erection rose from the dark tangle of his pubic hair and he gripped it, passing a thumb over wet head before heading to his basement office, where a fresh change of clothing waited. 

It was ninety minutes until his final sermon. 

***

The sun had yet to reach its peak over Whiteland, but the day was already coming off hot and humid. Penny, Kady, and Julia walked down the dirt road, following the peak of the town church’s spire. Julia gazed at it as they walked, remembering the first time she and Quentin had ever seen Fillory together. She remembered his dark eyes filling with tears and his expression lighting up in a way that she hadn’t seen since his tenth birthday, when his dad sprung for a Star Trek themed bouncy house. It was shaped like the Enterprise, and Quentin had refused to leave it until the company came to take it down. Fillory had been like that for him too--an impossible world coming to life right in front of him. 

_ I’m going to find you, Q. You, and Eliot and even Margo . . . I’m not going to let something you love ruin you this way!  _

As the group approached the church, pickups, minivans and early-model cars were filling up the dirt parking lot. Penny raised a brow. 

“Pretty happening place for a church,” he noted, and Kady scoffed. 

“Do you see anything else going on around here?” She asked, then rubbed a hand over her face. “I keep forgetting this isn’t real.” She glanced down at the silver rope tied around their waists. 

“What if this place doesn’t let us see Eliot? Molloson said it was like a maze,” Penny said, and Julia sighed. 

“The church is the best place to start, I think.” 

“Can’t believe he’s a pastor,” Penny muttered, and Julia glanced back at him. 

“This is a place of opposites, Penny . . . it’s designed to drive the captive mad.” 

“Shit, that’d do it for me.” They reached the front doors and followed the crowd into the nave. Kady craned her neck to see over people’s heads and then gasped and grabbed Penny’s hand. 

“Oh my God, look.” 

The crowd parted to seat themselves in the pews and Julia and Penny gaped at the sight before them. Eliot stood at the pulpit, his high cheekbones even more prominent with the short haircut he wore. The honey-colored eyes seemed to blaze from behind his rimless glasses, and he looked gaunt and so unlike himself that Julia blinked with the urge to rub her eyes. 

“It’s him,” she said. It’s him but it’s not, it’s like . . . everything that made him our Eliot has been stripped away.” 

“What do we do now?” Kady asked quietly, and Eliot’s voice rang through the nave. 

“Be seated!” 

The trio found room in the back, out of sight, and the service began with several different hymns. Julia recognized some from her Lutheran upbringing and mouthed the words so the people around her wouldn’t get suspicious. Kady and Penny traded nervous, awkward glances with each other but tried to follow along. Finally, when the hymns ended and the ancient organist took a seat among a muted coughing fit, Eliot looked out over the parishioners. 

“I’m pleased to see so many of you here. It’s a special day here at the church, and I’m sure it will be remembered for years to come.” 

The townsfolk glanced at each other, puzzlement evident on their faces. Eliot smiled, but it never touched his eyes. He opened a gilded Bible that rested on the pulpit and turned a few pages. 

“Who among you truly understands the meaning of salvation?” He asked, and the crowd shifted in the pews and shuffled their feet. Eliot nodded. “I understand . . . you believe salvation is prayer, and Sunday school and letting Jesus live inside your heart. And then you come here, and listen to my sermons and you think that washes you clean of the sins you commit when you stray from my watchful eye.” His expression turned bitter. “Thieving, gossiping, gluttony, fornication, masturbation! Well, the Lord sees all, and He has told me what must be done to offer you all true salvation!” 

Penny’s eyes widened as Eliot’s thoughts, unfettered by wards and touched by madness, began to filter into his mind. He grabbed Kady’s hand and yanked her to her feet. 

“Penny, what the hell--” 

“He’s got this whole fucking place rigged to explode! There’s a switch under the Bible--” He let go of her hand and began to charge over the pews, leaping from one to the next and scattering startled old ladies and gaping toddlers. Eliot saw the charge and his lips peeled back from his teeth like a furious stallion. He reached beneath his robes and Penny swore as he spied the glint of a handgun. He flickered out of the way as the gun gave a single, loud report and reappeared behind the maniac pastor, tackling him to the ground. People began to scream at the gunshot and Penny had to remind himself that they weren’t real. 

_ Mirror ghosts _ , he thought to himself.  _ Doesn’t matter if one of them took the bullet you avoided _ . He pinned Eliot to the wooden stage and knelt on his long legs. 

“Eliot! Come on, snap the fuck out of it!” He all but yelled in the tall magician’s face. Julia and Kady joined him as the rest of the congregation stampeded out the front door, screaming and crying that their pastor had gone insane. Penny glanced up at his friends. “Blowing this place up . . . it’s what would’ve made him lose his mind. This place, it’s like it’s real to him.” 

“Sinner! Bastard!” Eliot hissed at Penny, and the traveler shook him. 

“Yo! This isn’t a reboot of  _ The Exorcist _ ! You’re Eliot Waugh, you’re a fucking magician! C’mon man, think!” He yanked the glasses from Eliot’s face and glared into his eyes. You’re not a pastor, this isn’t real, and Quentin and your baby need you!” 

“Eliot!” Eugenia cried, and Eliot turned his head to see his father sprawled across the front pew, a bloody patch spreading across his white Sunday shirt. “Please, come help your Pa, he’s been shot! He’s hurt bad!” 

Julia and Kady knelt down and turned Eliot’s head back, forcing him to focus on them. 

“It’s not real, Eliot! None of this is! That’s not your wife!” Kady struck him hard across the cheek. “You’re married to Quentin! Quentin Coldwater!” 

Some of the madness left Eliot’s expression and a crease of puzzlement appeared between his eyes. 

“Q-Quentin?” He asked, then squeezed his eyes shut as speaking the word caused an ice pick of pain to drill through his right eye. Penny nodded. 

“I know this place is trying to keep its hold on you, but Quentin and your baby are going to die if you don’t try to free yourself!” 

“Sebastian,” Julia said as she cupped Eliot’s face with both hands and made her look at him. “You and Quentin are going to name your baby Sebastian.” 

Eliot stared at Julia as she repeated the name like a mantra, and the church began to tremble. Plaster fell from the ceiling and then everything--the pulpit, the nave, the stained windows, Eugenia and Eliot’s father--turned to slate-colored sand and crumbled, leaving the four magicians on the onyx catwalk of the mirror universe. Eliot blinked and moaned, his hair back to its usual length, the pastor’s robes gone. He put both hands to his head and Julia nodded. 

“I bet you have one hell of a hex hangover.” 

“What--where am I?” He asked as Penny helped him sit up. “What happened . . . where’s Margo?” He asked, then frowned. “And where the hell did you guys come from?” 

“That’s too long of a fuckin’ story for now,” Penny said as they helped the tall magician to his feet. “Margo is trapped in a mirror reality, just like you were, and we have to find her before she goes nuts!” 

***

“Margo?” Knuckles rapped against her dorm room door. “Margo, it’s Connie, I need to get in there, come on! Unlock the goddamn door!” 

Margo raised her head, poking it out from her bed’s comforter like a sick turtle. Since she’d applied the astringent and other products the night before, her face had become a horror of pus and open sores that leaked every time she moved her head. Strings of fluid dripped from the larger cysts and she moaned as they hit her pillow with a sound that sounded like egg whites hitting a kitchen counter. 

“Go . . . away . . .” 

“You crazy cunt!” Connie pounded at the door. “I’m going to come back with the campus police!” Footsteps faded down the hallway and Margo crawled from her bed, leaving snail trails of pus on the floor behind her. She half-crawled, half-walked to the window, the one that looked out on the front lawn of the hall. Their room was six floors up and she yanked at the sill until it gave with a screech of protest, paint flakes falling like dandruff onto the floor, A flimsy screen separated her from empty air and she pulled an art blade from a box of Connie’s supplies and began to scream as she cut the thing free of the window, where it fluttered to the ground. Margo watched it go and then climbed up into the empty space, her eyes two dark, shiny coins pressed into the ruin of her skin. People passing by began to notice her and pointed, and she laugh-sobbed. 

_ Finally getting the attention I want _ , she thought to herself. Across the street, Penny, Kady, Julia, and Eliot stumbled through the bushes, tied together with Molloson’s silver rope. 

“Fuck!” Penny snapped as he spied the figure in the open window, and Eliot looked up. 

“She’s going to jump!” Kady said, and Eliot began to untie the rope. Julia grabbed his hand. 

“Eliot no, we’ll lose you again!” 

Eliot leaned over and tugged Penny’s knife from his belt. 

“Are you crazy? Don’t--” 

Eliot lifted the free end of the rope, cut off a section, and gripped it in his left hand, and untied the rope around his waist, letting it fall away as he ran across the street and launched himself into the air, casting a spell as he did so. 

_ Please let it work, please-- _

Eliot felt the magic swell all around him and a pair of ebony wings, the same texture as his curly hair, bloomed from his shoulder blades. He went aloft, speeding toward Margo as she hurled herself from the window with a hysterical cry. Eliot gripped the hank of rope as his mind flashed on Dumbo’s magic feather--God, how many times had he and Margo binge-watched Disney films their first year at Brakebills, holed up in his room with a temperamental TV/VCR combo? At least a dozen, maybe more. He angled his wings back, increasing his speed, and then Margo was falling into his arms. Her weight caused them to tumble to the ground together and his wings dissolved in a greyish cloud of smoke. The others ran off as Eliot cradled her. 

“Get the rope around her, quick!” He said to Julia, who crouched down and secured her, and then Eliot. Eliot moved a thick curtain of Margo’s hair aside and swallowed hard when he saw the ruin of her face. Kady touched his shoulder. 

“It’s not real, Eliot. She’s being hexed, just like you were.” 

The campus shimmered and then turned to dust all around them. Eliot watched as Margo’s face reverted to its usual beautiful countenance and he touched her face. 

“Bambi? Hey . . . come on, sweetie, wake up! It’s Eliot. Please wake up!” 

Margo’s eyes fluttered open and her eyes widened when she saw Eliot’s face hovering over her. 

“Eliot? Is--” She reached up and felt his face with both hands and then flung her arms around him. “Oh fuck, it’s you, it’s really you!” 

“It’s me--it’s us,” he nodded, hugging her. Margo looked up at the others. 

“You came to find us?” She asked, and Julia nodded. 

“We found out what happened from a unicorn named Ari--” She began, and Margo’s eyes narrowed. 

“Those one-horned assholes betrayed us!” 

“The older one, Arrgus, did,” Julia nodded. “But his daughter told us the truth . . . most of the herd is still loyal to Amber because she created them, but Ari says she and a few of the younger unicorns trust the Children of Earth. They want you and Eliot and Q back on the thrones.” 

“Quentin!” Margo gasped. “Oh shit, that goat cheese twat still has him?” 

“Yeah, and I don’t know how much time he has left,” Penny said. 

“How do we find him?” Margo asked as she got to her feet and Eliot tucked the hank of silver rope into his vest pocket. 

“He’s somewhere in this universe, that much we know.” Eliot straightened his clothing and smoothed down his curls. The memories of his mirror universe weren’t fading much, but he pushed them onto a back burner in his mind. 

His husband needed him. 

***

  
  


Time didn’t pass in the mirror universe so much as it slid by, like a malevolent snake with mirrored scales. The five magicians rested on the wide strip of onyx, tied together, heads and asses padded with whatever they could use: Penny’s scarf, Kady’s flannel overshirt, Eliot’s vest. Julia and Kady slept with their backs to each other in a subconscious gesture of defense, while Penny slept on his back with his hands folded over his chest. Eliot and Margo faced each other, his left hand linked with hers. Margo’s eyes were closed but Eliot knew her breathing patterns well and he cleared his throat. 

“Margo?”  
She opened her eyes. 

“I don’t want to talk about it, El.” 

“I wasn’t going to talk about it.” 

Good.” She closed her eyes. A pause. “So how much do you remember?” 

“All of it.” 

“What was it like?” 

“My father was there. I had a wife that baked him meatloaf and made me chicken and ate Milano cookies all the time.” He gave a flat chuckle. “She liked  _ Family Feud. _ ” 

“Jesus.” Margo shook her head. “ _ Family Feud _ ? Talk about a horror show.” 

“Want to hear something ridiculous?” 

“Might as well.” 

“I feel guilty about how I treated her. She wasn’t even real.” 

“Well . . .” Margo squeezed his hand. “Where I was sure felt fucking real, so I honestly can’t judge.” Her dark eyes lifted to his amber ones. “Thanks for coming after me, El.” 

“I wasn’t going to leave you here.” 

She squeezed his hand again. 

“Do you think we’ll find Q?” 

“I don’t know, Bambi,” Eliot murmured. “This universe . . . it’s massive and Amber is probably going to great lengths to keep them both hidden.” He lowered his gaze. “I don’t know what I’ll do if--” 

Margo raised a hand and placed two fingers over his lips as she shook her head. 

“We aren’t going to talk about that now, El. Besides, Quentin is tougher than we give him credit for.” 

“How is he supposed to protect himself and Sebastian from that goat bitch? And we don’t even know how time works here. What if it’s already happened?” 

“I think we’d know if it had. She’s trapped here too, after all.” 

“I suppose that’s true.” Eliot’s eyelids drooped and he turned onto his side. Margo did as well, and he slipped an arm around her. Spooning was a thing they did often, mostly out of a need for comfort, and each welcomed it now. Eliot let Margo’s breathing sooth his edges and he was asleep a few moments later, his subconscious chasing ways to help Quentin before it was too late. 

***

He was standing in a field of new-mown hay, the scent both familiar and cloying. The sky overhead was slate grey and although there was no sun, he could see his surroundings--such as they were. 

“Where am I?” Eliot asked, and a tall man with short, dark hair stepped from a nearby cornfield. He wore pleated slacks and a simple button-down shirt. Light flashed off his rimless glasses. 

“You’re where we were, until your friends freed you,” the other man said. As he got closer, Eliot could see that he was facing a mirror image of himself: it was his face, anyway. 

“But don’t worry . . . this is just a visit.” 

“Wait, I don’t understand,” Eliot said, and his mirror self smiled. 

“Not even universes like this understand everything, Eliot. Magic can be as mercurial as the Lord . . . and your magic is like no other because you’re telekinetic. That’s why I’m here--even as my universe crumbled, a part of me remained because of what’s inside you.” 

“So this isn’t a dream?” 

“You are asleep, yes, but I brought you here because you can’t face Amber alone. Even with your friends behind you, she is still a powerful goddess.” Pastor Waugh’s eyes flashed silver-blue. But there is something she didn’t count on.” 

“What’s that?” 

“You made me. Creatures that are made in the universe have their own power, and coupled with yours, it will give you the strength to face and even defeat her. Give me your hands.” 

Eliot hesitated. The mirror version of himself had been quite insane at the end of things, and he had learned not to trust this universe from the first day it had taken Quentin. 

_ On the other hand _ , he thought,  _ I’m low on options and if it’s the only way to help Q and Sebastian, I can’t turn my back on it. _

He held out his hands and his other self took them. Eliot’s back arched a moment later as a massive wallop of power arched up his spine, like electricity along a power line. He shuddered as the feeling seemed to fill him like an empty glass, from his feet to the top of his head. The other Eliot let go, his smile benevolent. 

“I’ve given you the power you made in me.”  
Eliot blinked as his body adjusted to the surge and met his twin’s eyes. 

“Look uh . . . I don’t know how real all of this or how real that other reality was, but--I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for, son,” Pastor Eliot replied. “Your friends set us free, and that’s the best we could ask for.” He began to fade. “Now go kick some butt on that damnable graven image!” 

Eliot woke all at once, his body still filled with power. It throbbed painlessly between his temples and seemed to course through his veins. Margo sat up as light poured from his eyes, like the high beams on a car. 

“El? Eliot, what’s going on?” She asked as the other awoke, and Eliot held out his hands. Light streamed from his fingers and he grinned. 

“I had a visitor.” He got to his feet. “Come on, I’ll tell you on the way.” 

“The way to where?” Penny asked, picking up his scarf and draping it around his neck. 

“To where Quentin is--I know how to find him.” 


	11. Part Two: Mirror Images, Chapter 11

Quentin gazed up at Amber’s massive pet bug as it weaved a cocoon of webbing around him, securing him to the cavern wall. The thing had left his belly exposed, and Amber watched as she sat on a three-legged stool in the corner, sharpening her dagger. 

“It’s just easier this way. Once I cut the child out, the lampreys can do their work.” 

Quentin struggled as Sebastian moved and twitched. He sensed that he was only hours away from labor, maybe less, and that no one was coming to help him. 

The rasping sound of the knife dragging across stone paused, and the goat goddess cocked her head. 

“No,” she murmured. “No . . . it cannot be!” She got to her feet, walking stick grasped in one hand, and clomped to the cave’s entrance. One of the giants grunted at her, and she nodded. 

“Yes . . . I sense it too! Powerful magic--but where is it coming from?” Amber stepped out of the cavern as far as she was allowed. Outside, the onyx catwalk stretched forever in either direction, and she scowled. “Where is it coming from?” 

One of the giants grunted again and she struck it with her stick. 

“Pah, fool! That’s impossible! That ridiculous magician king is trapped in his own universe, and likely mad by now!” 

Quentin raised his head as he sensed the same magic the goddess was trying to track. It felt powerful, even from what had to be a fair distance. That tiny thread of hope in his heart began to glow. 

_ El?  _

At that same moment, a wave of pain rippled through his abdomen, tightening the muscles and skin. He gasped and bit his lower lip, knowing he’d just had his first contraction. One of the lampreys began to vibrate, its teeth gnashing, and Amber turned back toward the cavern. 

“Ah! It is time!” She cried in a delighted tone, and Quentin fought the webbing. It was tight and thick and didn’t give much at all. 

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” Quentin shouted, panic and terror making his words jagged and edged with anxiety. “I swear I’ll find a way to end you if you fucking touch me!” 

Amber sneered, and in that moment, Quentin saw the absolute evil in her heart. 

“Little human, I am done with you!” She raised the knife but the killing blow never came. The cavern’s seal shattered and Amber’s guardian giants flew past her as if they weighed no more than plastic toy soldiers. They struck the far wall and exploded, blood, tissue, and brains pattering to the cavern floor. Amber turned, and two of her lampreys exploded in a massive shaft of white-blue power. Quentin gaped, his dark eyes wide, the color of the light making his mind cross-connect to Alice after she’d gone niffin. The source of the light became apparent a moment later as Eliot prowled into the room, his fingers and honey-colored eyes streaming with it. Amber gave a bleating roar, raising her stick, and Margo, Penny, Kady, and Julia flanked Eliot, raising their hands. Sigils began to flow from Julia’s hands and Quentin struggled in his cocooned prison. 

“Watch out!” He cried as the amblypygid came forward, its pincers snapping. It lunged at Penny, who swore and ducked under the thing’s huge carapace. The creature nearly turned itself inside out as it chased him. Amber swung her heavy walking stick over her head as she charged Eliot, meaning to cave his skull in with the blunt end. He caught it in both hands as it came down and they grappled, Amber’s good hoof digging into the earth. Kady took advantage of her position to land a fierce kick to the bad one and she howled in pain, her grip on the stick loosening. Eliot wrestled it away and clubbed her in the jaw, causing her to spin away from him. Julia and Kady bombasted her with magic missiles as Penny drew his knife and began to cut through the webbing that held Quentin prisoner. Quentin watched. 

“Hurry Penny, please--” 

“Hold your water--” He watched Quentin’s stomach tighten. “Oh shit, like literally, hold it! This stuff isn’t exactly cotton candy!” He sawed through it and Quentin tumbled out, catching himself on one knee, A lamprey rushed them both and Penny pounced on it, driving the dagger’s blade home through the top of its head. It shrieked and spurted a noxious fluid and Penny ducked, yelping in disgust, as it collapsed in a nearby corner and thrashed with death throes. 

“Julia! Margo, Kady! Get Quentin out of here!” He tossed them the hank of silver rope he’d saved as Amber recovered and charged him again. He took a blow from her horns and got knocked off his feet, landing in the pile of straw Quentin had been sleeping in. Quentin tried to push his friends aside as they went toward him. 

“No! El!” He shouted as the goddess turned her back to him and went after Eliot while he was vulnerable. The amblypygi saw him free and rushed him, its pincers open and dripping, and Quentin forced himself to stand upright despite the labor pains. 

“Come on, you ugly fucking reject from Skull Island!” He said between gritted teeth, walking backward and taunting the thing. It reared up, opened its pincers wide, and rushed him. Quentin stumbled backward, then allowed his legs to fold. He rolled between Amber’s bowed legs, and the goddess gasped as the poisonous creature’s pincers drove deep into her back due to its forward momentum, her good leg poised to stomp Eliot to death. She twitched as foam ran from her mouth in a rush, then from her nose and eyes, before she collapsed to the ground, her legs kicking in a way that told Quentin she was dying. Julia, Kady, and Margo attacked the giant insect with strong blasts of magic until it gave a weak screech and toppled over to one side, its long, spindly legs already curling up. Quentin went to Eliot, panting as another contraction wracked his body. 

“El . . . El, oh God . . .” 

Eliot smiled, the magical light slowly fading from his hands and eyes. He reached for his husband with both hands. 

“Q . . . you’re alive, you’re alive . . .” 

Quentin’s fingers brushed those of the taller magician but before they could join hands, the quivering amblypgyi’s legs gave a final spasm and one of them drove into the small of Quentin’s back. He gave a small sound of surprise and stared at Eliot, unblinking, as all the strength bled from his legs and he collapsed to the ground. Penny leapt onto the creature’s exposed underbelly and stabbed it half a dozen times as Eliot gave a stricken cry, pulling Quentin to him. 

“NO!! No, no, fuck! Fuck, no please . . .” Eliot lifted his partner into his arms and looked over at his companions, his face a mix of fury, pain, and helplessness. “We have to get out of here, now! The baby is coming and Q is hurt--how the hell do we get out of here?” 

“The rope!” Julia picked it up and motioned them out of the shattered cavern’s entrance. “Come on!” 

The white-on-black universe wheeled overhead as the group stepped out onto the black catwalk. Julia coiled the rope in one hand and began to swing one end, like a lariat, and tossed the free end up into the sky, where it vanished. 

“Molloson!” She cried. “God of the sacred pool, guardian of the mirror universe, hear our plea! Return us to Fillory!” 

Silence spun out for nearly thirty seconds and Eliot tipped his head back to beg to the sky. 

“Molloson, guardian of the mirror universe, hear the promise of High King Eliot of Fillory! I pledge my devotion and a daily offering in return for your help! Hear my words, and my pledge!” 

The rope jerked almost instantly and Julia gave it an experimental tug. 

“It’s secure!” Come on, grab hold!” 

The group wrapped the rope around their waists and held on. Eliot carried Quentin in his arms and secured it around them both. It quivered and then the magicians rose into the air, as if the rope was being tugged by invisible hands. They broke through the universe’s invisible ceiling and multiple, silvery hands grasped at them, pulling them through water that was thick and charged with magic. They broke the surface off the pool, one by one, gasping and paddling to the edge of the pool. Eliot used his telekinesis to float Quentin to the bank before pulling himself out of the pool. The guardian’s face appeared to gaze at them. 

“Remember well your pledge to me, Eliot Waugh, High King of Fillory.” 

“I will, I promise.” Eliot scooped Quentin’s limp form into his arms. “Thank you, my lord guardian.” He bowed. “Thank you.” 

Kady lifted her hands to create a travel portal, and the group ran through it, back to Whitespire. 


	12. Part Three: The Questf or the Runestone, Chapter 12

##  Part III: The Quest for the Runestone

“Thaderos!” 

The shout nearly rocked Whitsespire’s walls as the group stormed into the castle. The centaur doctor raced down the hallway and into the throne room, his hooves striking sparks on the stone floor. 

“Your majesty! You have returned! Your highness!” He bowed to Margo, who nodded. 

“We’re back, but we’ve got trouble!” 

“Please Thaderos . . . please help Quentin.” 

“Bring him to my medical room,” the doctor replied, and Eliot jogged to keep up with their fleet-footed physician. Thaderos threw open the door and nodded to the muslin-covered table. 

“Lie him down there, your highness, and tell me what happened.” 

Eliot created a magical canvas in the air and sketched out a picture of the creature Amber had commanded. 

“It was this . . . and about the size of a sem--” Eliot paused. “Three full-grown bears. Maybe larger.” He filled in the centaur with the details of the mirror universe and the battle as he moved about and gathered instruments. 

“I know this creature,” Thaderos nodded. “It does not exist naturally in Fillory, but the goat goddess was clever--she created creatures drawn from King Quentin’s mind, ones that would terrify him.” 

Eliot paused. 

“Wait. Are you saying that Amber pulled that thing out of a book or movie Q saw?” 

“Indeed,” Thaderos replied as he put both hands on Quentin’s belly. “The child lives still, but I must take him now.” 

“And Q?” 

“I will do all I can to save him, your majesty.” He draped a cloth over Quentin’s midsection. “Do you wish to stay, or wait out in the hallways for the outcome?” 

“I didn’t leave Quentin to that goat bitch, and I’m not leaving him now,” Eliot replied. 

“Very well, your majesty.” The centaur chose a scalpel from his collection of instruments. “Let us proceed,” 

One hour passed, then two. Margo, Penny, Julia, and Kady gathered outside of the medical room. Penny paced like a nervous first-time father. 

“How long does it take to fucking have a kid?” 

“This isn’t exactly a typical birth,” Kady replied. “And Quentin was hurt bad. Whatever that thing was, it was like . . . made of poison.” 

“It was an amblypygid,” Margo replied, pushing her hair over one shoulder. “From  _ Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire _ . Q told Eliot and me once that it scared him badly enough to have nightmares, and then when he found out they actually exist in nature, well, that just made it worse.” She sighed. “It’s funny because the real ones are hella ugly but harmless. That goat cheese bitch really screwed with his mind.” 

“You mean all that shit came from Quentin’s mind?” Penny asked, and Margo nodded. 

“Not the lampreys . . . those are real and exist in a few different realms.” She shuddered. “I’ve heard about them. But that bug thing and maybe the giants, those came from images Amber took from Q’s mind. Did I mention that I’m super glad she’s dead?” 

“I just hope there’s no fallout,” Penny replied. “We killed a goddess.” 

“An asshole goddess who was exiled to the mirror universe for a reason,” Margo shot back. 

Penny raised his hands, palms out. 

“Hey, I’m not arguing that fact, okay? Just--you never know with Fillory. There’s always something on high that comes down to smite you when you least expect it.” 

“I don’t think Mollosin would have helped us out of the mirror world if he thought we needed to be punished for what we did,” Julia replied. “Fillory’s questing creatures have their own rules, and even a plea from the high king wouldn’t have persuaded Molloson otherwise.” 

Margo turned her head to reply when the medical room door opened. Eliot stepped out, his eyes red-rimmed. The group held its collective breath, and Margo frowned. 

“El? What is it?” 

“Quentin and I have a healthy baby boy,” he replied, and Margo got to her feet. 

“The baby’s okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

Margo took his hands and squeezed them. 

“Q?” She asked, and Eliot’s gaze dropped. 

“Thaderos says that--uh, the poison, it--” He paused and his throat worked. “Q is in a paralytic coma, Margo. Thaderos doesn’t think there’s much he can--he can do . . . “ Tears came to Eliot’s eyes and Margo slipped her arms around him. 

“I want to meet my godson,” she murmured. “Come on . . . introduce me, and we’ll see what we can do if we put our heads together.” 

Eliot nodded and Margo glanced back at the group. 

“I need some besties time,” she said, and Julia nodded as she and others left the hallways silently. Margo tugged at Eliot’s hand. “C’mon.” 

The medical room smelled of natural antiseptic and under that, a faint whiff of blood. Quentin, a still, pale form draped in muslin, didn’t stir as Margo and Eliot entered. Thaderos stood at a washing table, cleaning his hands. A simple linen basket on an elevated rolling table, wooden slats cradling it on all sides, sat next to the bed. Margo approached the table and peeked inside the basket, which was lined with sheep’s wool. A baby boy with honey-colored eyes, a curved upper lip, and a coating of dark, fine hair on his head, gazed back up at her. Emotion filled her throat, narrowing it, and she swallowed hard. 

“Wow,” she said after a moment. “Will you fucking look at what you made.” 

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Eliot asked. “Sebastian Theodore Waugh--or Coldwater-Waugh, if Q wants to do the whole hyphen deal.” Eliot paused and wrung a hand over his mouth. “He saved my life, Margo. That goat bitch stunned me and would have caved my head in if Quentin hadn’t gotten between us.” 

“I know,” Margo nodded. “I can’t believe he pulled off that tuck-and-roll at his size, and in the middle of labor contractions.” She smiled and took Eliot’s left hand. “That’s a brave man you’ve got there.” 

“A brave man that I let down,” Eliot replied. “I thought we’d done everything right, you know? That we were finally going to get out of there.” 

“We did get out of there, El. I know this is a setback, but we’ve been in shitty situations before, and we’ve always figured a way out.” 

“Would I be a terrible magician king if I said I was exhausted and the idea of another quest makes me want to head for the nearest fainting couch?” Eliot asked as he reached down and stroked the baby’s cheek with a gentle finger. 

“No. You’d be human.” Margo reached out and touched the baby’s right hand, and tiny fingers curled around her pinky. 

_ You’ve met your match, you icy bitch _ , she thought to herself as the touch thawed even the coldest spots of her heart. 

“What are we going to do? Thaderos says there isn’t much he can do but keep Q alive.” 

“Someone on this goddamn planet must know something about how to cure a mirror magic problem. Shit . . . look what Penny and others found out trying to find us!” 

“Before this? I would have said the unicorns, but we know we can’t trust them now. Except for Ari, but for all I know, they executed her when she went back to her people.” Eliot went to the medical room door and stuck his head out. “Guard!” He called to the nearest lookout. “Fetch me Tick, please,” he said, and the man bowed and hurried off. 

“You think Tick has a solution to this?” Margo asked, and Eliot looked down at his son. 

“He collects gossip the way other people collect shot glasses.” 

“Your majesty summoned me?” Tick asked as he stepped into the room, and Eliot nodded. 

“I did. Two things: first, come meet Whitespire’s prince, Sebastian Theodore.” He motioned him over to the basket and Tick smiled broadly. 

“Oh, your majesty! Truly, this is a day for celebration! The first offspring born to royal Children of Earth!” 

Eliot nodded. 

“We’re grateful he arrived safely, mostly because of Thaderos. But Tick, listen . . .” He sat the stout little man down nearby and told him the tale of the mirror universe, Amber’s death, and Quentin’s poisoning. “ . . . and that’s the problem now. Thaderos says he can keep Quentin alive but he’ll basically be--well, on earth, we call it a vegetative state. He’ll breathe, but he’ll never wake up or walk or talk or be able to rule or raise our child with me. You know a great deal about Fillorian lore, maybe even more than Rafe or Abigail, so I was wondering if there was anything you could tell me that might help. Even if it seems ridiculous.” He glanced over at his fallen husband. “I’m ready to grasp at the longest of straws.” 

Tick stroked his mustache a moment. 

“If his majesty knows the true story of the goddess Amber, then he must know the legend of why FIllory has a daily eclipse.” 

“Yes . . . when she was exiled, she flung the runestone she stole up into the sky and it hung there, where the sun passes behind it each day.” 

“Exactly! Now . . . while this is, of course, a legend, we know Amber was indeed real and that we do experience a daily eclipse. However, what you may not know is that the old gods possessed two of these stones, and they were rumored to hold such power that they could allow the user to travel between worlds, overpower any enemy . . . and cure any disease, illness or injury.” 

“If the second stone is with the old gods, Tick, I don’t see any way to get to it.” 

“The story is, your highness, that after Amber stole the first stone, the gods hid the second one to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Many people have searched for it without success, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t out there somewhere.” 

“Do you think it’s real?” Eliot asked, and Tick considered the question for a moment. 

“While I did not see the goat goddess with my own eyes, I believe your account of her existence, your highness. I can only surmise that the second stone must be real.” 

“Why do I get the feeling that the word ‘quest’ is marching toward this conversation?” Eliot asked, and Tick gave him a sympathetic glance. 

“It is the way of your Children of Earth to go questing. Perhaps it simply . . . what is the phrase? Goes along with the land?” 

“Goes with the territory,” Eliot corrected as he rubbed his eyes, “All right--is there anyone else that might be able to tell me where to look? I understand the planet is a finite area, but it’s still a planet.” 

“Perhaps the Whitespire library would help. There are many recorded books of lore there, after all.” 


	13. Part Three: The Quest for the Runestone, Chapter 13

“I can’t believe I’m spending time in a library.” 

Eliot glanced down from the high shelf he was perusing to see Margo seated at one of the long tables in the castle library. The walls were built of deep, thick wooden shelving that rose to the high ceiling. 

“Well, I’m sure Q would tell you that quests sometimes start with research. Gods, why aren’t any of these damn things labeled?” Eliot asked as he pulled out a few leather-bound books and floated himself back down to the floor. 

“I don’t think Fillorians know much about the Dewey Decimal System,” Margo replied. “And I can join the club, now that I think of it.” She turned a page of the open book in front of her. “Eeew. I think this thing is bound in skin and sinew.” 

“Probably. Tick says these are some of the oldest books in Fillory.” He sat down next to her and opened one of the ones he’d brought down. “If any information about Amber or that other runestone is anywhere, this is where we’ll probably find them.” 

“It just seems like such a longshot.” 

“Sometimes longshots are all you have, Bambi.” He turned a page. “Look . . . here’s Ember and Umber creating Fillory.” He tapped an etching. “But there’s no mention of Amber.” 

“Didn’t Penny and the others say that the mirror universe guardian told them she came later?” Margo asked, then she scoffed. “Typical youngest child. Spoiled fucking rotten and always needing to get her own way.” 

“I was the youngest child,” Eliot said, and then he sighed as Margo gave him a long, pointed stare. “Okay fine, but just so you know, I didn’t always get my way. And if I prove the youngest child theory, then Q proves the weird only child theory!” 

“Oh, that he does,” Margo grinned a little. “In fact, he could be the poster child.” An affectionate tone belied her words. “We’ll get him back, El. If we could find that Amber bitch and pull him out of there, then we can find a cure for that bug venom. I guess if anything, we should be grateful he didn’t take a direct hit with that thing’s pincers.” 

“If anything,” Eliot murmured as he turned another page. The left page was littered with runes that Eliot didn’t recognize, but the right featured some Fillorian text and a depiction of what he thought was one of the ram gods. He skimmed the text, thankful that Quentin had prodded him to keep up with his Fillorian reading and writing, and then his heart leapt as he realized he was looking at Amber. 

“It’s her! Margo, look!” 

“What does it say?” Margo asked as she glanced over, and Eliot turned a page, his heart slamming. 

“It’s the story of her exile--the true story! Not the ones the unicorns and talking horses believe.” He followed the text with a shaking finger. “A Fillorian high priest witnessed the exile . . . he was--” Eliot squinted. “I’m not sure what this word is, but I’m guessing he was Ember and Umber’s patron saint? Oh Gods . . . Margo, he knows where the other runestone is!”  
“Problem?” Margo tapped the page. “This was written eons ago, El. That priest has been dead for hundreds of years.” 

“That is a rub,” Eliot sighed. “But on the other hand, we’re magicians, aren’t we?” 

“We are.” 

Eliot slammed the book closed and tucked it under one arm. 

“Let’s go find the others--we’re going to need to cast a cooperative spell.” 

***

Eliot gathered Penny, Kady, and Julia in his common room, where he outlined his plan. While none of them interrupted, their expressions grew more skeptical with each passing minute. 

“Man, this sounds fucking nuts!” Penny said when Eliot finished speaking. Eliot stroked his chin. 

“Is that your official stance, meaning you’re not willing to help?” 

Penny scowled. 

“Don’t put words in my mouth. I just mean that time travel spells are really unstable. One wrong twitch of the finger, one syllable pronounced wrong, and you end up in some Jurassic tarpit! I don’t know about you, but I’m not really that eager to become unleaded gasoline in some future asshole’s Prius!” 

“You won’t,” Eliot replied, “because you’re not going. I am.” He glanced over at Margo. “Alone.” 

“Like blue fuck you are, Eliot!” She said, biting off each word like she would rather be biting Eliot’s head off instead. “You--” 

Eliot held up a hand. 

“If this doesn’t work and I don’t come back, I need someone here to rule and raise my son. Julia, Kady, Penny . . . you can take over the other thrones if Margo becomes High King. Besides, Quentin is my husband. I said the vows.” 

“So you’re just going to fucking fling yourself through time, alone, and hope that a cooperative spell sets you in the right place?” Kady asked, and Eliot nodded. 

“That’s the plan. The only way I can find the runestone is to talk to Ember and Umber’s high priest; otherwise, I’ll spend the rest of my life stumbling around Fillory looking for it and our son will grow up with one father physically absent and the other mentally checked out. How is that fair to him?” 

“El.” Margo touched his arm. “Are you really serious? You want me to be high king if this doesn’t work?” 

“I can’t think of anyone else I’d trust more with my kingdom--or my son. Come on . . . let’s set up the spell.” 

It took the better part of two hours to gather the proper ingredients and gauge the elemental conditions. It was a sunset spell and required clear skies, and Eliot was grateful that Fillory’s warm seasons lasted for several years. This led to a multitude of “winter is coming’ references between the royals, with Quentin humming the  _ Game of Thrones _ theme afterward until it drove Eliot crazy and Margo threatened to castrate Q with a melon baller. 

Eliot didn’t even want to begin to understand how that might work. 

Now the group of magicians stood in a clearing outside the castle, their hands joined/ Eliot stood in the middle of the circle, his feet surrounded with thatches of herbs and other spell ingredients. Eliot closed his eyes and began the spell, raising his voice to sing in an ancient language. The other joined him a moment later, adding their voices to the spell. They cycled through the song, faded, then began again until golden sigils rose from their joined hands and began to surround Eliot as they spun in a helix. As the spell took more power, the sigils spun faster and faster until Eliot could no longer be seen. They flew apart then, dissolving into millions of golden sparks before they faded, like dying campfire embers. The circle now contained nothing more than some charred herbs and the mild, smoky scent of burned pine needles. 

But there was no longer any sign of Eliot. 

  
  


***

The one thing Eliot hated most about traveling by magic was the sensation. It wasn’t like flying or teleportation: it was more like magic boiled you down to your barest essence and then turned you into some kind of glittering barium enema before squirting you at supersonic speed along the humming, high-tension wire of time. Landing was also painful, as it usually took your consciousness at least thirty seconds to catch up with your body, which left you vulnerable to attack by lord knows who or what. 

Fortunately, when Eliot’s mind finally bounced back into his body, he found himself lying on a soft carpet of fall leaves that were still crisp and not spongy. 

_ Early fall then . . .  _ Eliot managed to sit up. At the edge of the woods was a clearing and beyond that, Castle Whitespire. It looked different than what he remembered though--it was missing a few spires and one of the turrets wasn’t turning. 

_ Almost like it’s under construction or something _ , Eliot thought to himself. L _ ike it would be . . . if the spell worked!  _

That thought got Eliot to his feet and he stumbled closer to the edge of the clearing to get a closer look. The castle was indeed incomplete--he could see men adding masonry to one side of the castle. The rest of the landscape looked more or less the same, and Eliot paused. 

“If I were a high priest of twin ram gods, where would I live?” He asked himself. There were no churches in Fillory, at least not the traditional kind, and most of the villagers worshipped either the ram gods or another local deity. Eliot struck out toward the castle. 

“If this man is a priest, someone is bound to know where he lives or worships,” Eliot reasoned as he hiked down a path, out of the woods, and across the clearing. As he approached the castle, a pair of guards in simple-looking uniforms crossed spears across the path that led to the main entrance of Whitespire. 

“Halt, in the name of the king!” 

Eliot halted. 

“And that king’s name would be?” He asked, and the two guards exchanged glances. 

“Are you a stranger that comes from afar?” One asked. “Everyone in the land knows the name of High King Cornelious, the Magnificent!” 

“I am--a stranger, I mean. I’ve traveled a very great distance to see a high priest. He’s the patron of Ember and Umber.” Eliot added a brief bow out of deference to the gods. The taller guard frowned. 

“The Grand High Priest Lord Aoife does not reside here! He resides on high!” The guard pointed with his spear and Eliot’s stomach sank as he found himself looking at a temple-style building on a mountaintop to the east. 

_ Please, whoever looks out for wayward royal queers and magical fools, let me cast a working portal!  _

“Does he accept visitors?” 

“It’s hard to say, stranger,” the other guard, a short man with a handlebar mustache said. “Few who see Lord Aoife ever return to tell others of their audience.” 

“Oh, that’s a fucking comfort,” Eliot muttered to himself, and the guard blinked. 

“Eh?” 

“Nothing.” Eliot waved a dismissive hand. “Thank you for the information.” He walked off, gazing up at the temple and entertaining a dozen different reasons why people didn’t return from it. 

_ Maybe he’s a cannibal? A serial killer? Maybe he sends his disciples out into Fillory to sell cheap multi-level marketing products? In any case, if I don’t try, Quentin takes a lifelong nap and we don’t raise our child together.  _

This thought was enough to move Eliot along to a spot where he could make a portal without being seen. While Fillory itself was a magical place, he wasn’t sure if its past residents were used to seeing strangers performing magic. The woods gave him cover and he cast, relieved as the spell formed without trouble. He stepped through and into the other side, and his inner ear spun and his lungs cramped as the thin air on the mountaintop made him gasp. Fillory sprawled far below him and Eliot groped for the nearest bit of scrub to steady himself. Some of the twigs broke off in hand and only then did he realize the temperature was at least thirty degrees colder at the temple. A knot of people dressed in simple white homespun garb stared at him, unblinking, and Eliot tried to recover enough to greet them. He raised a hand, hoping they weren’t armed. One of the group, a willowy woman with a thick braid of russet hair, rose from what looked like a pottery wheel and gave him a genial smile. 

“Welcome, stranger, to the temple of High Priest Aoife.” She held out her hands. Eliot took them and she turned them over, studying his palms. Eliot watched her. 

“Ahm . . . thank you. I’m actually here to seek an audience with the high priest. Is that possible?” 

The woman examined his palms for several minutes before she nodded. 

“Yes. I believe he will want to speak with you.” 

“You could tell that by looking at my palms?” 

“Your lifeline reveals much to me, magician.” She smiled and crooked a finger at him. “Come.” 

Eliot followed her down a path of baked red clay, past the other people. Some read thick books, others snapped the ends off beans and removed the roots off what looked like freshly-grown carrots. Another was creating a painting with pigments made of berries and different types of soil. None of them seemed affected by the temperature or the atmosphere. As he crossed the threshold of the temple, Eliot felt a subtle magical shiver twist its way up his spine and he rubbed his arms to chase it away. The woman glanced over her shoulder. 

“You have traveled a great distance to see our high priest.” 

“Yes, I have. Further than you might imagine.” 

“I can imagine a great many things, magician.” 

“Eliot. My name is Eliot Waugh.” 

“I am Eolionne.” 

“I’m guessing you’re not the high priest’s wife?” 

Eolionne laughed, and the sound was like distant wind chimes stirred by a breeze that carried the promise of snow. 

“My lord will never take a wife. It is not his way. No . . . I am simply a part of his collective.” 

_ We are Borg _ , Eliot’s mind responded instantly, and he choked back a jagged laugh. He covered his mouth, faked a cough to cover the mirth, and cleared his throat. 

“When I asked the Whitespire guards about visiting this place, they told me few people ever return.”

“Yes, that’s true. High Priest Aoife’s teachings are so inspiring that many who visit decide to stay and join the collective.” 

“And the others?” 

Eolionne shrugged. 

“Not everyone survives the trek up the mountain. Some succumb to the cold, others are taken by predators.” She led him down a carpeted hallway, images of Ember and Umber woven into the material. The walls of the temple were decorated with sigils, some of which Eliot recognized as spell components. The hallways curved, and the woman led him into a chamber that looked too much like the nave he’d occupied in his mirror universe for Eliot’s liking. However, there was no pulpit or even a raised stage, and the pews were set low into the ground and covered with homespun pillows of all shapes, sizes, and colors. A man in white robes, the sleeves trimmed with maroon, sat in one corner, his head bent over a large book. Eolionne cleared her throat. 

“My lord priest? You have a visitor.” 

Aoife raised his head and Eliot’s heart snapped up and down like a yo-yo. The priest appeared human in every way except for his head, which were topped with thick, curved ram’s horns. They curled out of his long white hair, which was braided with gold thread. Eliot’s mind flashed back to a bath he and Quentin had taken together about three months earlier, where Eliot had braided gold filigree into his husband’s long hair. His throat closed with momentary grief. The man smiled in an empathetic way, as if he could sense the memory, and he motioned Eliot forward. 

“Come closer, my son.” His voice was robust yet gentle, as if the color of his hair belied his actual age. Eliot approached and gave him a deep bow. 

“Your excellence.” 

“Rise,” Aoife raised his hand, palm up, and Eliot obeyed. “Eolionee, tea please.” 

“Yes, my lord.” She left the room and the priest offered Eliot a plush purple cushion to sit on. Eliot crossed his long legs and sat. 

“I don’t look like you expected,” the priest began, and Eliot shook his head. 

“Not exactly, no. Are you one of the new gods?” 

“No, my son. I am Ember and Umber’s mouthpiece . . . their words and will and wishes shine through me. I was given my sacred horns after I foresaw the coming of the first Children of Earth, those who Ember and Umber cherish above all others.” 

“I’m a child of earth. Perhaps you’ll understand this better than anyone--I’m actually a king from Fillory’s future. I’m known as High King Eliot--” 

“The Spectacular,” the priest finished with him, and Eliot nodded. 

“That’s right! You know me?” 

“In a sense,” Aoife nodded. “I can sense you have magic that does not yet exist in Fillory, and your clothing is not at all like those who rule now--or who did rule. They are all dead now because of the goddess Amber. She slaughtered them in a bid to take control of Fillory.” 

“That’s why I’m here,” Eliot said, then paused as Eolionne brought the tea on a stone tray, along with a clay bowl of sugar and a small pitcher of goat’s milk. 

_ Oh, the irony _ , Eliot thought to himself as he recognized the texture. He added a bit of sugar to his own clay cup and sipped. It was fragrant and slightly spicy and the best thing Eliot had tasted in some time. 

“Tell me of your trail,” Aoife said as he doctored his own tea, and Eliot sighed. 

“Amber went into exile after she killed Whitespire’s royals. The runestone she stole hangs in the Fillorian sky to this very day. The other was entrusted to Ember and Umber’s high priest--you. That stone is the only thing that can cure my husband, King Quentin. He was poisoned by one of Amber’s insect guardians. He--” Eliot paused as his throat narrowed with grief. “He was pregnant with our child, and while our castle doctor was able to deliver him, Quentin is in a deep coma . . . a dreamlike state.” Eliot said as the priest’s brow furrowed. “He won’t ever awaken unless I get that stone. Please, High Priest Aoife. Please, I beg of you . . . help me. Help me, and help Quentin.” A tear slipped out of his left eye and dripped off his chin into his teacup. The high priest watched. 

“My son . . . you truly have traveled far to seek my help.”  
“I have,” Eliot managed before he swallowed the rest of his tears and took a deep breath. “Legend has it you hid the other runestone. Please . . . if you know where it is, I need to borrow it.” 

Aoife lifted his teacup to his lips and took a silent sip. 

“My son . . . even a magician of your caliber could not contain the magic that stone possesses. It would likely kill you and your husband if you tried to use it to heal him.” 

Eliot’s mood turned to anger, like the movement of a swift diving from a cliff. 

“What are you saying? That I came here for nothing? That the one thing that can heal Quentin actually can’t heal him after all, because it’s too powerful?” He resisted the urge to hurl his teacup against the wall. 

“It is true that the runestone is beyond your abilities. However . . . there might be another way.” 

“Anything,” Eliot nodded, and Aoife looked him in the eye. 

“Only a god or goddess can control the stone.” 

“But I’m not a god.” 

“Perhaps not. But there may be a way you could obtain their power for a short time.” 

Eliot’s eyes widened as he recalled the way Alice had gained Ember’s powers to defeat the Beast and his stomach turned. 

“You mean . . . imbibe a god’s essence?” He asked, and Aoife smiled the slightest bit. 

“It need not be as invasive as all that, my son.” 

“Then how?” 

“Some gods have been known to offer their power to humans that are the most deserving.” 

“Please don’t tell me I need to go on another quest. I’m at capacity here!” 

“Are you familiar with the Fillorian god Dobbfisher?” 

“I can’t say that I am,” Eliot replied. “But then, Quentin is kind of our historian.” 

“He is the god of all deep water in Fillory. He lives deep in the Secret Sea. If you retrieve the runestone from where I secreted it away, he will likely grant you a wish.” 

“Like a questing creature?” 

“Exactly that,” Aoife nodded, finishing his tea. 

“Will you tell me where you hide the stone?” Eliot asked, and the priest nodded. 

“It lies in a crevice far below Whitespire. When the dwarves began to bury the castle’s gears because Hotspots the cheetah could not sleep due to the ticking sound they made, I placed the stone in a deep, black hole and bade them bury it along with the gearwork.” 

“So . . . it’s buried under miles of stone and dirt? Pardon my next question, but how the hell am I supposed to get to it?” Eliot asked. Aoife chuckled. 

“My son, do you have no faith in yourself or your magic? You are a magician! You are a king! You have natural abilities that few others possess, here or on earth!” He rose and went to a shelf where many thin drawers were set into the wood and opened one. 

“Here we are,” he muttered to himself, pulling out a yellowed scroll. He returned to his seat and unrolled the scroll, using the empty teacups to secure both ends. Eliot scooted closer to see the parchment’s details. 

“Whitespire has many underground tunnels that were dug by the dwarves as they worked on the castle’s gears. They used them to transport equipment, but have since likely fallen into disrepair. They may be dangerous or occupied by dangerous creatures--trolls and ogres, most likely. You may be able to reach the stone by traversing these tunnels. If you manage it, return to me, and I will contact Dobbfisher. He enjoys rewarding humans for great deeds.” 

Eliot closed his eyes a moment and then nodded. 

“All right, I accept.” 

“Very good, my son!” Aoife rolled the map up and laid it at Eliot’s feet before slipping a gentle hand under the young man’s chin. Eliot blinked at the gentle touch and the priest smiled. 

“I know your path has been a difficult one and that you have suffered a great deal at the hands of Amber and her guardians. But I also know that your well of personal strength runs deeper than the Secret Sea, my son. Take heart . . . you may yet see happy days with your husband once again.” 

“I hope you’re right, sir,” Eliot replied, and Aoife pulled his hand away. 

“You cannot go much further without rest. Please, stay and sleep a bit before you continue your journey.” 

“I can’t . . . “ Eliot paused to stifle a yawn. “I can’t delay myself any longer.” 

“Time is a river, my son. The distance from there to here is fluid, and your husband and son do not yet exist.” He laid some pillows down. “Rest.” 

Eliot found that he couldn’t resist. He wondered briefly if the tea had been drugged before he laid his head down on a red pillow that smelled of incense and snuffed candles and went to sleep. 


	14. Part Three: The Quest for the Runestone, Chapter 14

“El?” 

The voice echoed off the stone walls of Whitespire’s walls and Eliot turned, his heart filling with joy as he realized it belonged to Quentin. His husband crossed the throne room wearing a muslin caftan, his feet bare. His stomach was flat. Eliot blinked away tears. 

“Quentin.” A wave of terrible sadness washed over him. “You’re not really here. I’m dreaming . . . fuck, I’m dreaming.” 

“Yeah,” Quentin smiled. “You were right about the tea, but what was in it is letting you see me--it was an herb to promote lucid dreaming.” 

“Oh Jesus,” Eliot sighed, and Quentin reached up to touch his cheek. 

“I miss you.” 

“Oh Q . . .don’t, please.” Eliot whispered, clasping a hand against Quentin’s smaller one. “Don’t, I can’t bear it.” His eyes filled and overflowed, wetting their joined hands. Quentin gave him a sad smile. 

“I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but you have to be strong right now, El. I know sometimes you don’t think you are at all, but I want to tell you that you are. So much more than you think. You’re my magician king . . . you’re the other half of my heart. We’ve found each other in the dark more times than I can count.” His other hand came up to push back Eliot’s dark curls. “We just have to find each other this one last time. Please, El.” Quentin’s dark eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “Come find me in the dark.” He became translucent, then transparent, and Eliot reached for him. 

“Q! Come back! Come back--” 

“Come back!” Eliot shouted himself awake, tears standing on his cheeks. He was still in Aoife’s chamber, and the priest sat nearby, his sharp blue eyes scanning a parchment. As Eliot sat up, the priest sensed his movement and raised his head. Eliot wiped his face with both hands in a singular, angry motion. 

“You saw your mate,” Aoife said without preamble, and Eliot glared at him. 

“Why did you do that?” 

“Because sometimes, my son, heroes need to be reminded of what they fight for.” 

“I’m not a hero!” Eliot snapped. The priest smiled. 

“Self-perception often prevents us from seeing our own worth, or how others perceive us. You may not believe you are a hero, but those who do see you that way are no more right or wrong in their belief than you.” 

Eliot frowned. 

“I’m not sure I understand. I’m a hero because some people see me that way?” 

“What do you think you are, my son?” Aoife asked as he brought Eliot a wicker basket of fresh-baked rolls. His stomach growled at the smell of them and he took one. 

“Thank you.” He took a bite and the bread seemed to melt in his mouth. The insides were brushed with hand-churned butter that tasted like the stuff his mom used to handmake in their kitchen. “I don’t know . . . a magician? A king?” He thought of Sebastian, safe back in the future with Margo and the others. “A father?” 

“All are correct. And when you were young, you were determined to become exactly what you wanted, despite your father, the tauntings of your peers, your mother’s tears. Now tell me--is not retrieving Quentin from the shadow realm another way of becoming what you want all over again?” 

Eliot paused, the roll halfway to his mouth, and he stared at the priest. Aoife gave him a knowing smile. 

“That’s right. Now . . . take your leave when you wish. Eolionne has prepared a travel pouch for you.” He nodded to a nearby cushion, where a canvas sack filled with food, a container of water, and some basic medical supplies sat. Eliot smiled. 

“You’re all very kind.” 

“It is our way.” Aoife rose and went to a cupboard in the corner and withdrew a purple traveling cloak. Eliot could tell by its texture that it was waterproof. The priest presented it to him. “A gift for your travels, High King Eliot Waugh of Fillory.” 

Eliot accepted it and smiled as the material brushed against his fingers. 

“Thank you, sir.” He bowed and picked up the canvas sack by its broad strap. The map of Whitespire’s underground sat tucked between a cloth napkin full of more bread rolls and the container of fresh water. “For everything.” He opened a portal and stepped through it, glancing over his shoulder one more time. Aoife raised a hand in farewell, and Eliot stepped back out into the clearing near Whitespire, where he’d started. He gazed up at the castle and pulled the map from his bag. Aoife had marked a little-used side entrance at the northern wall, and Eliot pulled a piece of fruit from the bag to munch on while he got his bearings. The fuzzy texture made him glance down and he found himself holding a ripe, plump peach. He bit into it and licked some of the juice off his chin. 

_ How are they growing fresh fruit at that elevation?  _ Eliot asked himself, then remembered the priest’s knowing smile and magic tea. He finished the peach and tucked the pit into his pocket, thinking it might make an interesting souvenir or that Quentin could plant it when he woke up. He slung the bag over his shoulder and began to make his way to that northern door, hoping the garden there hadn’t been established yet--in his time, it was full of man-eating plants that none of the royals, including the Chatwins, had been able to eradicate. They ate unwary gardeners with regularity and everyone in Whitespire treated them with great respect. They both frightened and fascinated Eliot, who was a longtime fan of  _ The Little Shop of Horrors, _ but he wasn’t eager to get up close and personal with any. 

Eliot stayed out of sight as much as he could until he came to the curve of the northern wall, The sturdy garden wall that he was familiar with was absent, and the garden was nowhere in sight. 

“Thank the universe for small favors,” Eliot sighed as he spied the wooden door Aoife had marked on the map. It had a rounded top and no window and a brass pull. He crept close and tried it: the door swung in on a musty-smelling hallway. He stepped in, his head cocked, listening for any signs of the royal guard. He knew from Quentin’s Fillorian history books that the king that sat on the throne presently wasn’t really a king at all, but a steward; other Children of Earth would not arrive in Fillory for another quarter of a century, and Eliot doubted the guards were expending a ton of energy on protecting a Fillorian-born steward, especially after their royals had been so viciously slaughtered. 

_ And all because Amber was jealous of her brothers _ , Eliot thought to himself.  _ And because she wanted power. It’s power that put Quentin in danger . . . and sometimes I have to wonder if this is all worth it, especially now that Sebastian is here. Maybe when this is all over, I’ll talk to Q and Margo about going home. Let a new generation take over.  _

A noise pulled Eliot from his thoughts and he glanced up to see water dripping at the curved arch that led to a descending stone staircase. The steps were covered with moss and as Eliot watched, a rat ran, squeaking in a self-satisfied way, down them. Eliot sighed. 

“And as the rat goes, so do I.” He started down the steps, careful not to slip on the moist moss. The light faded the further he went, and he murmured the spell for a mini sun. It glowed to life over his left shoulder, giving him a clear view of the rest of the steps. He couldn’t see where they ended yet, but the sounds of the castle were growing distant. Eliot opened the map and traced his progress--yes, the steps would lead him quite a way down underground. Beyond that were tunnels and caverns where things might live. 

“Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” Eliot quipped, then he frowned. It wasn’t much fun making pop culture references when there was no one there to appreciate them. He pulled up the hood on his traveling cloak--the staircase was growing cold--and continued on his way, chanting the  _ Wizard of Oz  _ phrase in his head to keep himself amused. He missed Margo’s company almost as much as he missed the comfort of Quentin’s presence. 

“If this is being a hero, it’s a lonely fucking business,” Eliot muttered to himself. The long muscles in his calves began to tire as he continued to descend, the sun orbiting his head like an ersatz crown. The distant sounds of footsteps and voices above him faded away completely, leaving nothing but the sounds of rodents and insects to keep him company. His booted foot finally hit the floor and he brought his other leg down with a groan. His feet throbbed and he paused to sit on the last step to pull off his right boot. A blister was rising on the heel of that foot and he rubbed it, wincing. While his knee-high boots were fashionable and the envy of most of the people in court, they weren’t exactly made for hiking, especially on stone. He packed his boot with a bit of woven cotton Eolionne had put in his back and bent over to tug his boot back on. Something small and angry-sounding whizzed over his head as he did so, like a wasp, and Eliot ducked down further, his ass striking the step behind him as he cast a shield. Two more projectiles struck the shield at mid-chest and he looked up. At first glance, he thought they were small, pale, naked children, but as he got a better look, he saw they were wrinkled and pink, like baby rats. Their shape was vaguely humanoid but their fingers were elongated in a way that reminded Eliot of E.T. and their bellies were round and lacked belly buttons. 

“What the hell--” He began, and one of the creatures raised a hollow tube to its mouth and blew hard. Another projectile hit the shield and Eliot slipped to the side, trying to get his back to the wall. “Shit! The attack of the Fillorian pygmies!” 

The creatures made chittering sounds at each other, like furious squirrels, and crept closer. They had large black eyes with no pupils, but despite the lack of expression, Eliot knew they planned to hunt and eat him. He couldn’t fire magic missles at them without lowering his shield, so he took the only other option: he cast a floating spell and propelled himself upward. The creatures screeched and paced in small circles as he flew out of reach of their poison darts and dissolved the shield in favor of glowing up some missiles instead. 

_Quentin’s favorite, some straight up Dungeons and Dragons shit_, he thought to himself as he hurled the balls of light downward. They struck the creatures squarely, setting them ablaze, and they screamed and ran in circles before the fire engulfed them completely. Eliot watched, feeling both disgust and pity, as they fell into a blazing heap. He sent his mini sound out into the chamber and several more of the things shrieked and ducked into the shadows. 

“Shit,” Eliot muttered. Like most physical magicians, he would exhaust his magic if he cast too much too soon, and his telekinesis was still unpredictable. He cast a full body shield, flew over the other creatures’ heads as they fled from the light from the mini sun, and fled into the tunnel beyond. He descended, set one foot down and then the other, and dissolved the shield. Although he knew it would leave him vulnerable to more of those things, if more existed, he had to preserve some magical energy for whatever lay ahead. He lowered the sun’s light to make it last longer--it would go out on its own eventually, like a long match, but for now it was still enough to see by. Eliot consulted the map and gave a soft groan as he realized he still had what looked like miles to go. 

*** 

The map led Eliot under Whitespire until he felt buried. At one point he became aware of a ticking sound and remembered the story of Hotspots the cheetah which, amazingly, turned out to be a true tale instead of a flight of fancy. The gears had been buried miles underground. Eliot hadn’t seen anymore of the creepy pygmies but a few other worrisome creatures--spiders the size of ponies, an anaconda-sized worm with mouths at both ends, a thing the size of a large dog with both feathers and scales--had showed themselves during his trek. It was also growing colder, and Eliot was grateful for the cloak Aoife had given him. Finally, he reached the furthest reaches of the map and found himself standing on a stone cliff. It wasn’t terribly high, maybe thirty or forty feet, but a chasm separated him from the crevice where the runestone had been hidden away, and it was filled with water. Eliot glanced down at the map and peered closer. A few faint water lines were visible and he closed his eyes in a gesture of both exhaustion and patience. His magical energy was mostly tapped out, and if he was going to get past those pygmy things on the way out, he’d need to conserve. He and Quentin had gone cliff diving near Whitespire a dozen times, so he wasn’t afraid of much except for the temperature of the water. 

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” he muttered, quoting  _ Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home _ more than Shakespeare as he stripped off his cloak and boots but left on his trousers and shirt on before taking a deep breath and jumping into the water. His toes pointed downward, his arms folded across his chest. The water was so cold it was like jumping into a pond full of needles but he surfaced and began to paddle. The chasm was deep but it wasn’t wide, and Eliot began to cross it with sure, strong strokes. This was one time that he was grateful for his country upbringing, as he’d learned to swim early when his older brothers had tossed him into the pond on their property. He’d paddled madly to keep from sinking as his brothers cheered him on. His mother had scolded them all when he came home dripping and covered with pond algae, but he’d been secretly pleased that he’d passed their test. 

Eliot was pulled from thoughts of the past by a minute ripple passing through the water. He paused, treading water, and the ripples turned into bubbles.

“Oh shit, oh shit shitshit!” Eliot swore, the words echoing off the chasm’s walls as he began to swim toward the opposite wall. At the same time, a massive squid broke the surface, its head grey and mottled green, its massive eyes dark and reflective. It snapped a tentacle outward and it wrapped around Eliot’s waist. He kicked and fought, slamming his fists against the rubbery skin as it lifted him out of the water. A leathery beak opened in a triangular shape to reveal a slick, wet gullet, and Eliot’s eyes widened. 

_ Oh God oh God I’m sushi . . .  _ he tried to grow a magic missile but his powers were all but tapped out and his telekinesis, as usual, was more unpredictable than a half-tamed stallion and refused to obey. The tri-fold beak opened wider and the tentacle lifted him directly over it. A panicked scream escaped the young magician as the very real possibility of being swallowed alive faced him and he kicked. Something hard brushed against his outer thigh and he realized it was the peach pit he’d tucked there earlier with thoughts of keeping it as a souvenir. He wrestled it from his pocket as the tentacle squeezed him like some impossibly huge anaconda and he drew his arm back to throw the pit into the thing’s open gullet with the last of his strength. 

The effect was immediate. The squid shuddered and began to make thick gagging noises. Its tentacle released Eliot and he fell into the water with a heavy splash, fighting to get air into his lungs. The gigantic creature’s tentacles writhed and flapped as it choked on the pit, white rims of panic appearing around its eyes before foam built up around the beak and it stopped moving. As Eliot watched, gasping, the creature died and slipped beneath the waters. 

“Holy fucking Cthulhu,” he wheezed, spitting out water and pushing back his dripping curls. While it wasn’t the first time he’d faced imminent death or even actually died, getting digested alive ranked low on his list of ways to go. He took a few gulping breaths and continued on his way, looking for the crevice where Aoife had hidden the other runestone. The map showed it as a shelf of glasslike black rock, which would stand out from the rough, dark red stone that made up the chasm walls. Eliot finally reached the far wall and climbed out of the water, feeling for hand and footholds in the near-darkness. He clung there, shivering with cold, and then his hand touched something smooth. He paused and ran his hand along the protrusion. It felt deliberate somehow, the texture glossy. Hope flooded Eliot’s heart and he reached along until his hand slipped into a niche in the rock and his fingers touched something that all but burned with magic. He bit back a sob. 

“I found it. Oh God, Q, I found it!” He withdrew the stone and it gleamed in his palm, circular and flat, the surface shimmering with sigils that Eliot had never seen before. He held it for a moment, letting its ambient magic soothe him, before he slipped into the water again. The stone seemed to warm him as he crossed the water again, this time without incident, and climbed out, his fingers clenched around his prize. He let his legs fold under him and he sat down hard on his traveling cloak, shivering. He wasn’t sure what other types of creatures might be living nearby, but Eliot knew he wouldn’t get far if he didn’t take a few moments to rest. He wrapped the free end of his cloak around his shoulders, hoping it would help him dry faster, and looked out across the chasm. The fact that a pit from Quentin’s favorite fruit had saved him wasn’t lost on Eliot, and he laughed a little as he hugged the runestone close to his chest. 

“I’ll bring you a better souvenir, honeylove, I promise,” he whispered before rooting through his travel bag and pulling out a few rolls and a container of cherries. He picnicked there, eating both rolls and most of the cherries before pulling on his boots and traveling cloak. The food and the rest had replenished him to the point where he might be able to cast if he needed to, and he had a feeling that the runestone might protect him as well. While he didn’t dare try to use it, he sensed that it knew him for what he was, as well as his intentions. He hurried along the tunnel, his heart growing lighter with each step. As he reached the point where the small, hungry creatures had attacked earlier, the stone pulsed with light and caused them to retreat into the shadows. Eliot grinned. 

“Thank you. Thank you, whatever you are,” he said as he reached the long stairwell. The thought of the climb was exhausting, but Eliot knew he didn’t have nearly enough energy for casting a portal. He began the climb, trying to ignore the blisters on his feet and the quivery feeling in both legs that told him they were going to ache like hell the next day. Still, he trudged, counting off the steps to keep his mind busy. Mice and rats scurried past him and once, a fat possum with four babies clinging to her underbelly hissed at him from a niche in the stairwell, nearly causing him to tumble, but he managed to regain his footing. 

“I’m going to have a stern word with Abigail about all these freeloading rodents,” he muttered to himself as he continued on his way. The sounds of the castle began to grow louder, and Eliot groaned in relief as he realized he was nearly at the top. He emerged twenty minutes later, a bit winded and shivering in his clammy clothing. The hallway was empty and Eliot stumbled out the side door and into the sunlight. He jogged across the clearing and tumbled down into a carpet of pine needles, crawling into a patch of sunlight like a cat preparing for a long afternoon nap. He curled up, clutching the runestone to his chest and chuckling a laugh that had an exhausted, almost mad edge to it. He laid that way for almost thirty minutes, micro-napping and snapping awake a few moments later, sure the runestone had been taken from him. But no, there it was, still clutched to his chest. Finally, Eliot felt rested enough to stand and create a traveling portal that would return him to Aoife’s temple, and what he hoped would be his ultimate salvation. 

***

"My son, you have returned.” 

Eliot approached at Aoife as the older man smiled, and he wanted to weep at the priest’s kind tone. 

“I have . . .” He held out the runestone, and Aoife’s eyes widened. 

“By Ember’s blessed beard, Eliot!” 

Eliot nodded and his legs began that telltale quiver again. His lower lip followed suite. 

“Please, may I sit down?” He asked, nearly collapsing on the nearest large pillow as Aoife nodded. 

“Relax now, my son. You are safe here. Elionne, fetch some tea and a haunch of venison, if you would.” 

The woman sketched a bow and hurried away, and Eliot wiped a hand over his eyes. 

“I apologize, your grace.” 

“You are exhausted beyond reason,” the older man replied, taking Eliot’s right hand and giving it a fatherly squeeze. “There are no apologies necessary. Your hands are like ice, child! Come, I’ll find you a warm robe to wear.” He went to a tall cupboard and withdrew a white robe with fleece lining. 

“You may change there,” Aoife nodded to a patterned screen, and Eliot took the robe with a grateful nod. A moment later he was peeling out of his cold clothing and shrugging on the robe. The fleece lining kissed his skin with warmth and a moment later, a pair of slippers slid under the screen. Eliot chuckled and slid his feet into them. More fleece--ohhh. Bliss. 

“I can understand why so many people stay here when they come for an audience with you, your grace,” Eliot said as he stepped out from behind the screen. “For living so simply, there are some lovely comforts.” 

“One cannot live on the good graces of Ember and Umber alone,” Aoife smiled. Elionne returned with a large platter of food and Eliot’s stomach growled. 

“Come eat, and tell me of your trail as you sought the runestone.” 

Eliot filled a wooden plate with venison, vegetables, and a generous helping of fragrant brown rice. 

“There were some nasty creatures under Whitespire,” he began, and the priest fixed himself a plate for himself and said a brief prayer before taking a bite. 

“Indeed? I warned you of the trolls,” he replied, and Eliot nodded. 

“I did have a run-in with them, but the thing that almost ended me was the--well, I’m not sure what it was. It looked like a squid but with about three dozen tentacles.” 

“By Umber, child! You survived an encounter with Thoobra?” 

“Whoobra?” Eliot frowned, eating a piece of potato, and Aoife took a quill and small piece of parchment from his robes to sketch out a drawing. 

“Is this the creature?” He asked, tapping the likeness, and Eliot nodded. 

“Yes . . . we have sea creatures like that on earth that are sort of similar, only much smaller and with eight tentacles.” 

“This is Thoobra,” Aoife said. “He lives in the water caverns under Whitespire and spends much of his time slumbering in the deepest of water. I did not think your passage to search for the stone would awaken him!” 

“Except that it did,” Eliot said, and told the story of how he’d escaped. Aoife gave a shake of his head once he was finished. 

“Son, you must have the luck of one thousand pixies!” 

“I didn’t feel very lucky at the time,” Eliot replied. “So, about this Dobbfisher?” 

“Yes . . . he has been informed of your great deed by my lesser priests and should arrive soon. Until then, eat, drink, and rest. You have truly earned it.” 

Once Eliot ate his fill, he grew sleepy almost instantly. It crossed his mind that the food might have been drugged, but when Aoife did not remove the runestone from where he’d set it by Eliot’s head earlier, he knew he could trust the priest. He felt a brief stab of guilt for suspecting the man, but once you were betrayed by something supposedly as pure as a unicorn, it was difficult to trust. 

He slept soundly for nearly two hours, and when he awoke, a strange-looking man was standing over him. His feet were webbed like a duck’s, his legs slender and thin like a stork’s, yet his chest and shoulders were robust. A white crest of feathers, like a cockatoo’s, graced his head, and his eyes were dark and ringed with gold. Eliot got to his feet and bowed to the god, who made a benevolent gesture. 

“Rise, High King Eliot.” 

“Thank you. Are you... .?” 

“Dobbfisher, yes.” The man smiled. He had a thin, fu manchu-style mustache made of thin, silky white feathers. “Allow me to guess a thing--you were expecting something more like a fish?” 

“Well, uh . . . maybe,” Eliot replied, and the god chuckled. 

“Many are surprised at my appearance when they first see me. But like the fisher birds I created, I treasure courage above all else.” He glanced down at the runestone. “High Priest Aoife has told me of your bravery and your desire to heal your mate. I can grant you the power to use the runestone for this purpose.” 

Eliot went to one knee and bowed his head. 

“Thank you, your excellence. Thank you so much.” 

“The stone cannot travel through the time portal, but I can draw energy from it and bestow it upon you. However--” The god raised a long finger, tipped with a sharp-looking, thin talon. “The transference may be dangerous and the power of the runestone may change you and your mate.” 

“Isn’t the power of the stone a force for good?” Eliot asked, and Dobbfisher nodded. 

“Yes, but the power is that of the old gods.” The ringed eyes blinked at him. “Do you accept?” 

Eliot nodded. 

“I have to help Quentin.” 

“Very well.” Dobbfisher picked up the runestone and let it lie in his right hand. With his left, he began to make plucking motions, as if he was coaxing string out of the stone. Filaments of white-silver light began to rise from the carved sigils and vanished into the god’s fingers. Eliot watched: he could sense the power even as it rose from the stone, and it made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck rise. The part of him that used and craved magic became hungry to use that power and he fought it back. 

_ This isn’t about you, and it’s not even about magic, really. It’s about the only way to help Quentin wake up and give Sebastian his other father back. So focus, Waugh!  _

“Very good, magician king,” Dobbfisher muttered as he collected more threads. “This magic is not for those who crave power for their own means.” 

“You can read my mind?” Eliot asked, and Dobbfisher didn’t glance up as he spoke. 

“Am I not a god?” He asked. 

“Y-Yes, my lord.” 

“And so it is that I can read what you think.” He drew a few more threads from the stone and raised his head. “Come to me, Eliot Waugh.” 

Eliot obeyed, and the god placed a hand over his heart. 

“Meet my eyes during the transference. It will keep you centered as the power fills you.” 

Eliot nodded and stared into Dobbfisher’s bright, clever eyes. A massive pulsing sensation began to fill him at the same time and his long frame jerked hard. This was more than the magic he’d learned at Brakebills, more than the wild and unpredictable power of his telekinesis--no, this was . . . this was  _ other _ , this was an unnameable something that both loved and challenged him, that ate through all of his wards and defenses and filled even the deepest of cracks and crevices in his sense of self. He took a deep breath as he watched his own reflection in the god’s eyes, watching his own face twitch and grimace as the stuff filled and filled him, like a magic glass that held much more than it appeared to be able to. The sensation peaked and Eliot made a small noise as a rush of pleasure moved through him. Then it was fading, and Dobbfisher nodded. 

“It is done, Eliot Waugh. You are now a vessel for some of the stone’s power.” He turned and handed the runestone to Aoife, who took it away, the sigils still glowing. 

“I . . . I feel like I can barely contain it,” he said, and Dobbfisher inclined his head a bit. 

“I can imagine. Now . . . it is time for you to leave this place in history and return to your own.” 

“How?” Eliot asked, and Dobbfisher gave a musical chuckle, like the call of a songbird. 

“With the magic you carry inside you now, all you need to do is form a picture in your mind and will yourself there.” 

“Should I click my heels together too?” Eliot asked, and the god blinked. 

“Very well, if you think it will help.” 

“Then I guess this is goodbye,” Eliot said as Aoife came to stand beside Dobbfisher. The high priest nodded. 

“Indeed.” He handed Eliot a bundle that contained his new cloak and his Fillorian garb. “I wish you nothing but luck and love, High King Eliot of Fillory.” 

“Thank you, Aiofe. Thank you, my lord.” He bowed to Dobbfisher before closing his eyes and picturing his home: Margo’s sardonic but affectionate smile, the daily eclipse . . . Quentin’s warm, loving arms. 

And he clicked his heels anyway, just for luck. 


	15. Part Four: Tell the World I Am Coming Home, Chapter 15

##  Part IV: Tell the World I Am Coming Home 

“All we hear is radio gaga . . . radio goo goo, radio gaga . . .” 

Margo whisper-sung the words to Sebastian as she rocked him in the ornate oak rocking chair Eliot had commissioned from the local furniture artisans. The seat had a plush pillow built directly into it, and the back was padded with a filled sheepskin liner. Her feet bumped in time with the song. Sebastian’s wet nurse, a plump, matronly woman named Opalinda, glanced over from the crib, where she was changing the sheets. 

“Begging my lady’s pardon,” she said, “but what is that song you sing?” 

Margo stroked Sebastian’s cheek. In the two weeks since his birth, his eye color was settling into a dark hazel, but Margo could see honey-colored flecks there too. 

“Oh . . . just an old royal ballad. It was written by a queen.” 

“Indeed?” 

“Uh huh.” She gave Sebastian’s nose a gentle tap. “And that’s not even one of the best ones. Your daddy would tell you that.” 

Opalinda finished tidying and turned to Margo. 

“Would your grace like me to bed the child down now?” 

“No, that’s all right. I’ll do it in a minute.” 

The woman gave Margo a curtsy; she was from one of the oldest families in Fillory, and they had been serving Whitespire royals for generations. Margo gave her a nod and a smile in return, and Opalinda left her alone with the baby. 

“Should we go sit with your Papa?” She asked Sebastian, who blinked at her and blew a spit bubble. 

“I’m going to call that a yes.” She rocked to her feet and headed down the hall, up a flight of stairs, and stepped into the medical room. A kitchen worker was there, having his burned finger examined by one of Thaderos’ assistants. The centaur himself was bent over Quentin’s supine form, listening to his heartbeat. Margo sat down in a nearby chair. 

“No change?” She asked, already knowing the answer. Thaderos shook his head. 

“He breathes, that is all.” 

“Do you think his brain is damaged?” Margo asked, and the centaur frowned in thought. 

“It is difficult to tell with my instruments. However, I have seen some eye movement under the eyelids and his pupils react to light. Based on what I know about humans, those are both positive signs.” He washed his hands and then turned to Margo. “Your majesty, I fear we must talk about the future.” 

“In terms of what?” She asked, lifting Sebastian to lay him against her chest and pat his tiny back. 

“If High King Eliot does not return and there is no cure for King Quentin, we must consider the question of quality of life.” The physician paused. “Perhaps this existence is not what he desires.” 

Margo’s lips thinned. 

“Thaderos, if you’re suggesting what I think you are . . .” 

“It is not a suggestion. It is a hypothetical.” 

“I get that we have a Terry Schiavo thing going on here, but I’m sure as hell not going to entertain letting Q die!” 

“Your majesty? That may happen anyway, despite our best efforts.” 

Margo closed her eyes a moment. 

_ If I weren’t holding this baby, I’d give Bojack here such a fucking slap . . .  _

“All right, look,” she said at last. “Eliot has only been gone two weeks and three days. That’s not nearly enough time. We have to give him a chance to find that cure.” She leaned forward a little, one hand on Sebsatian’s back, and smoothed Quentin’s hair back. His personal attendant, a shy, sweet-faced kid of about seventeen, still saw to all his grooming, and the tawny locks were still damp from a washing. “Time passes so differently here. In Eliot’s reality, he might have only been gone a few days, or even a couple of hours! You can’t expect me to make this choice, Thaderos!” 

“You understand that King Quentin’s care requires--” 

“I don’t care what it requires! Take on more assistants! If you want better pay, you’ve got it! Your own apple orchard? Fine!” She looked down at Quentin. A part of her knew how Quentin’s daily functions were being handled and that Thaderos might be right about his wishes, but wasn’t wearing diapers along with his infant son better than being dead? 

_ Is it what you’d chose?  _ Margo’s brain whispered. I _ s it really better? Or is it that you can’t bear the thought that you might make the wrong choice, and lose Eliot too?  _

“I don’t want to think about this right now,” she said at last. “It’s much too soon to even be discussing it.” She patted Sebastian’s back as he began to cry. “The baby is tired . . . I have to go put him to bed.” 

“Of course, your highness.” Thaderos nodded. “Please understand that I meant no harm.” 

“I know.” Margo turned to leave when a blinding flash of silver-white light filled the doorway. Margo gasped, taking a quick step back and turning her right side to the entrance to protect Sebastian. The baby stopped crying all at once and her heart sank. She pulled him off her shoulder and looked down at him. His hazel eyes were so aware that she almost expected him to speak. 

“It’s okay. Bambi,” a voice said from the doorway as the light faded. “Sebastian just knows his daddy is home.” Eliot’s form became visible as he stepped forward, and Margo pressed her lips together before setting the baby down on a nearby low stack of clean towels before throwing her arms around Eliot. He slipped his arms around her and rested his chin on top of her head, taking in her form, her scent, all the familiar things that made her so much a part of his home. They embraced until the baby began to cry again, and Eliot stepped back to give Margo a smooch on the forehead before he scooped up the baby in one arm. Sebastian quieted as he stared up into his father’s eyes.

“Hello, little shoes,” Eliot smiled and tickled the bottom of one tiny, moccasin-clad foot. “You’ve grown already!” He looked up at Margo, who was wiping her eyes without trying to look like she was doing so. “How long have I been gone?” He asked, and she cleared her throat. 

“Two weeks, three days.” She frowned. “El . . . your eyes . . .” Margo said, watching as they swam with silver-blue threads of light. 

“It’s my reward.” Eliot said, then looked over where Quentin laid like a wax dummy. Eliot’s expression shifted and he kissed Sebastian on the cheek before handing him gently to Margo before approaching the bed. Thaderos gave him a bow. 

“Your majesty! By the horns of Ember, you have returned!” 

“Hello, Thaderos.” Eliot knelt by the bed and stroked Quentin’s hair. “I’m home, baby. I came back to you.” He looked up. “Could you guys give me a few moments alone with Q?” 

“Sure, El. I’ll go put Sebastian to bed.” She slipped out, and Thaderos and his assistant went into another part of the medical area to confer about the cook with the burned finger. Eliot waited until their footsteps (and hoof beats) faded, and picked up Quentin’s hands in his own. They were warm but lifeless, like clay figures left out in the sun. 

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever make it back here, Q. I wasn’t sure if I was brave enough or good enough for a quest like that, or to carry a god’s power. But every time I thought I was at my limit, or too tired or too frightened, I thought about you getting in between me and Amber, even when you were in the middle of labor. That’s a big part of what kept me going . . . because if you could be that brave to put yourself between me and death, then I could find a way to keep death from taking you instead. I don’t know why I’m saying this to you when you can’t hear me. Maybe it’s because I know you can’t interrupt and tell me how not worth it you are.” Eliot’s throat worked. “But you are, Quentin Coldwater. You are worth the universe, and more. And it’s time for you to wake up now.” Eliot kissed his hands, laid them down, and got to his feet. His eyes began to flash as he bent over Quentin and put his big hands on either side of Quentin’s head, on his temples. The light in his eyes raced down his neck, his arms, and streamed out of his fingers. His lean frame shuddered and Quentin’s body gave a single, convulsive buck, as if he’d been hit with invisible defib paddles. Eliot poured all the magic at his command into his husband, working to drive the paralytic venom from his body. Handling the power was like trying to control a pneumatic power tool with a hyperactive engine, but Dobbfisher had prepared him well. He wrung himself dry and then fell to his knees next to the bed, his muscles spasming, his powers completely spent. Quentin remained still and Eliot shook his head. 

“No. No, no . . .” He tipped his head back. “It was supposed to work! It was my reward! Aoife! Dobbfisher!” He called, but there was no reply. The room remained silent. Eliot opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out: the sheer unfairness of it robbed him of his voice. He folded his arms on the edge of the bed and dropped his head onto them, where he wept silently. The sobs were soundless but so powerful that Eliot felt like his heart might rip loose from its moorings and float loose in his ribcage like one of those old-fashioned screensavers from the 90s, where a shape would bounce aimlessly around the screen as it struck the corners. The only person who made him whole, made him a husband and a father and a king, was never going to smile at him again or make a nerdy reference to some arcane movie or book, or ask Eliot to adjust his crown in that way where he made it sit just right, or complain about Margo while loving her on the inside, where it counted, or make those little  _ ummm ummm  _ sounds in his sleep until Eliot held him and chased all the nightmares away. A jealous goddess had taken it all, and for a few terrible moments, Eliot Waugh no longer wanted to live. He pictured flinging himself out of the medical room window and onto the flagstone far below: the broken and bloody king of Fillory. But no . . . that wouldn’t help him be with Quentin because his husband wasn’t dead. 

_ Where does that leave me? _ Eliot asked himself as tears flooded his throat and burned his sinuses.  _ Do I take Q back to earth? Get him better care? Do Margo and I raise Sebastian? Would she even want to help me do that? Watching Sebastian grow up in the backdrop of some assisted living facility where we visit Quentin every day because I wouldn’t be able to handle taking care of him on my own?  _

“This isn’t fair,” Eliot whispered. “This isn’t fair, I did everything everyone asked of me!” He raised his head and took Quentin’s face in his hands, all but blinded by tears. 

“What do I do now, Q? How am I supposed to know what you want? Please . . . help me. Someone, somewhere. Help me.” He climbed up beside Quentin, still fully clothed, and made room for himself until he could turn and lay his head on Quentin’s chest and listen to the slow thud of his heartbeat. He cried himself to sleep that way, the clockwork of Quentin’s heart offering him a constant yet empty sort of comfort. 

***

_ Five Days Later _

“El, we need to talk.” 

Eliot looked up from Quentin’s bedside, where he was bottle-feeding Sebastian in the rocker he’d had moved from the nursery. 

“No, thank you,” Eliot replied. “You said quite enough the other day when you suggested we euthanize Q like some flea-infested mongrel.” 

“Isn’t it exhausting, being peak dramatic 24 hours a day?” 

“That is what you said,” Eliot replied, setting the bottle down and lifting Sebastian onto his shoulder to burp him. “Gee El, maybe Q wouldn’t want to live in a vegetative state and Thaderos suggested we finish what Amber started.” 

Margo’s eyes narrowed. 

“You better back up that bitch bus real fast, Eliot. I never suggested anything like that! I just wanted to discuss our options.” 

“Is hanging myself from a ceiling fan an option?” 

“No. But I might strangle you with one of my best belts if you don’t stop being the Fillorian Bette Davis and talk to me!” 

“Has it at all occurred to you, Margo, that I don’t know what to say? That I don’t have any answers? I failed Q--I failed us all, somehow, and no one sent me a condolence letter with a detailed explanation! I don’t know why the god magic didn’t work! It should have, but it didn’t! If you want to go out and try some grand fucking quest in my place, then be my guest! Maybe you’ll have more luck than I did!” 

“You unimaginable  _ twat _ !” Margo snapped. “Who do you think was here taking care of your son while you were gone? Tick? Julia? Fucking Penny? No! It was  _ me _ !” 

Sebastian started to whimper and Eliot patted his back. 

“You’re upsetting him,” he said, and Margo rolled her eyes as she gave a flat, angry chuckle. 

“Oh, that’s right. I’m upsetting the baby. Never mind that you’re the one holding him and he can probably feel your hostility as easily as I can!” 

“Just get away from me!” Eliot turned his back on her and held Sebastian to his chest, his own throat burning with tears. 

“Maybe that’s what you deserve,” Margo replied, her voice quaking. “Maybe that’s why the god magic didn’t work! Because what you really want, at the bottom of your heart, is to be alone so you don’t have to feel anything!” 

“Shut up.” Eliot squeezed his eyes shut. “Shut up, shut up . . .”  
“Screw up, mess up, fuck up!” Margo shot back. Resentment burned in Eliot’s gut like he’d swallowed a mass of embers, 

“If . . . you guys are gonna fight . . . like this, I’m going back . . . to sleep,” a rusty voice murmured, and Eliot’s heart paused in his chest like an old watch. He heard Margo gasp and hope poured over the anger, snuffing it out. He turned to see Quentin looking up at them both, his dark eyes muddled but aware. 

“The fuck?” Margo whispered, her voice tight with tears. Eliot stared, and as they watched, a silvery-blue light raced up Quentin’s legs, arms, and chest until the glittering threads passed along his neck and lit up his eyes from the inside. Quentin made a small noise as they did, and then the threads passed out through the top of his head, leaving a silver-blue streak about two inches wide at the crown. The threads seemed to leap around like joyous birds before they imploded, one by one, to leave gleaming sparks in the air. As they faded, Quentin blinked up at Eliot and Margo. 

“That . . . was different,” he said in that same small voice, and then he was struggling to sit up. “So . . . are you guys gonna knock that shit off, or what?” 

“Q.” Eliot managed before taking one step and then hitting his knees by the bed, the baby still in his arms. He felt Margo’s hands on his a moment later as she took Sebastian with a gentle touch. Eliot shook his head. 

“We . . . we were just about to clear the air--fuck, oh Q . . .” Eliot’s emotional walls began to crumble as Quentin laid a hand over his and he burst into tears, resting his head on Quentin’s left thigh. Quentin stroked his hair. 

“El. Don’t, baby. Shhh . . .” 

“Don’t you f-fucking dare tell me shhh!” Eliot said between sobs. “Don’t you d-dare . . .” He went into a fresh spasm of weeping. Margo gave him a wry smile, but there were tears standing on her cheeks as well. 

“You have to forgive him, Q,” she said, touching his shoulder. “We’ve all been a little emotional since you went under.” 

“Don’t remember much,” the young magician admitted, and Eliot raised his head. 

“You’ve been out almost a month,” he managed. “We found a cure for that bug’s poison but it didn’t work--at least we thought it didn’t. I don’t understand . . .” 

“You Children of Earth,” a new voice said. “So impatient!” 

Eliot started as Dobbfisher appeared next to the bed. He preened a moment, and Margo’s mouth dropped open. 

“Is that--” 

“It is,” Eliot nodded as he managed to get to his feet. “Dobbfisher. Your grace . . .” Eliot took a moment to dust off his breeches and smooth down his hair. “May I present High Queen Margo, my son Sebastian Theodore, and my husband, Quentin Coldwater. You guys, this is Dobbfisher, the god who gave me the cure.” 

“I’m honored.” Margo gave him a brief bow. “But if you could maybe tell us why it took three weeks for that cure to work while El and I verbally ripped each other’s throats out, please?” She held out a free hand and Eliot took it, grateful that silent apologies were their thing. 

“As magicians, I made the assumption that you understood the nature of the runestone’s powers,” Dobbfisher replied as he stepped forward to examine Sebastian. “So this is a human infant? It is so tiny!” 

“They come out that way,” Eliot nodded. “But your grace, if you’d just explain--” 

Dobbfisher held up a hand and then put his arms out with an expectant expression. Margo glanced at Eliot before she placed the baby in his arms. Dobbfisher gazed into the baby’s eyes and Sebastian gazed right back. 

“Yes . . . it is as I expected.” 

“What is?” Eliot asked, and the god looked up. “Had your son been old enough to speak, he could have healed Quentin Coldwater on his own. He has immense magic, more than any human I have ever encountered. I simply couldn’t resist coming to see.” 

“I called out to you weeks ago for help,” Eliot said, struggling to keep his tone respectful. “Why didn’t you come to me then?” 

“Many call out to us in times of strife, Eliot Waugh. However, we cannot always appear when you wish it. Some are mercurial, others do not want to become involved.” 

“And you?” Margo asked, and Dobbfisher tickled Sebastian’s chin. 

“A rare error.” He handed the child back to Margo and trained his birdlike gaze on Quentin. “I thought the High King would understand that magic so powerful is like…” the god gestured and made a brief, thoughtful chirp. “What is it you humans call it? Those devices that hold power? I saw one once, long ago, when I visited earth in the middle of the 20th century.” 

“A battery?” Quentin asked, and Dobbfisher nodded, the crest on his head rising in excitement. 

“Yes! A battery! The runestone is like that. To put that much power into one living thing all at once?” He shook his head. “Immediate results would have melted Quentin into so much running pus!” 

Quentin flinched and Dobbfisher nodded. 

“Indeed.” 

“So the power had to work its way through Quentin’s system and fill him up. Like a phone charging,” Margo said. 

“Much of magic works on a counterbalance,” Dobbfisher nodded. “The mirror bug’s venom acted immediately, so the cure--” 

“Had to work slowly,” Eliot finished with him. “Jesus! Why didn’t that ever occur to me?” 

“Human emotion. You were so focused on what did not work that you did not realize what was.” 

“I’m an idiot,” Eliot muttered, and Dobbfisher chuckled. 

“No, High King Eliot Waugh. You are only human. And an impatient one at that!” He put a hand on Quentin’s head a moment. “Yes. The venom has been purged. How do you feel, Quentin Coldwater?” 

“A little weak, I guess,” Quentin replied. “Hungry--” His eyes widened a little as sensation crept back into his legs and the rest of his lower body. “And a bath would be good?” 

“I’m sorry about that, Q,” Eliot said. “It was the only way to . . . you know . . . contain it.” 

“Just promise me we won’t have to talk about it anymore once I get out of this bed,” Quentin replied, and Eliot grinned, his heart whole and light again. 

“You only wipe the ass of the one you truly love.” 

_ “Eliot!”  _ Quentin’s cheeks went scarlet. 

“As many of my fisher birds, you have both chosen a lifelong mate,” Dobbfisher observed. “May you prosper until the rest of your days.” 

***


	16. Part Four: Tell the World I Am Coming Home, Chapter 16

After an exam by Thaderos, a long bath in Eliot’s private tub, (Quentin couldn’t quite face the waterfall room yet,) and a massive pizza dinner provided by Penny and Kady, who made a special trip to Quentin’s favorite pizzeria in Brooklyn, Eliot and Quentin retired to bed together, along with Sebastian. 

“Do you think he’ll have a hard time bonding with me?” Quentin asked as he rested the baby on his drawn-up legs and played with his hands. Eliot rested his head on Quentin’s shoulder as he watched. “I read somewhere that the first 48 hours with your baby are the most important.” 

“He’s your son, Q. You carried him, protected him from that goat bitch . . . and I think he knows it.” 

“El, he’s just a little baby.” 

“You heard what Dobbfisher said. Sebastian is a magicians’ child.” He smiled. “He’s going to make an amazing king one day.” 

“Uhm--” Quentin picked the baby up, his nose wrinkling. “I think he just made a royal turd.” 

“Here, let me.” Eliot took Sebastian. “I’ll have Opalinda change him and put him to bed.” 

“Thanks El,” Quentin yawned, appreciating the sight of Eliot’s ass, clad in clingy silk lounge pants, as he left for the nursery. Once he was out of the room, Quentin rubbed his legs, frowning at how thin they felt. While the runestone had purged the venom from his body, it hadn’t healed the weight loss and mild atrophy he’d experienced while he’d been unconscious. 

“Opalinda said not to worry,” Eliot said as he came back into the room. “She’s got our backs--and Sebastian’s butt.” 

Quentin covered his legs with the duvet and nodded. 

“Thanks, El.” 

Eliot climbed into bed and slipped under the covers. 

“Come here, honeylove,” he said, touching Quentin’s shoulder, and Quentin hesitated. 

“El, I . . .” 

“What is it?” Eliot asked, stroking his shoulder. “You know you don’t have to be afraid, baby. You’re not, are you?” 

“No. It’s not fear. I just. Uhm . . .” He cupped his elbows. “I’m--I look different.” 

“Well, you were in a coma for almost a month and the paralysis didn’t allow for much for any kind of physical therapy. It’s not your fault, Q . . . your muscle tone will come back now--I’ll help you exercise.” He reached up and played with the silver-blue streak in Quentin’s hair, which looked to be permanent. “Now this? This, I fucking love. It’s so sexy!” 

“El.” Quentin smiled and batted his hand away. “I’m serious! I look like a stick figure!” 

“But you’re my stick figure.” Eliot leaned in and kissed his cheek, then the corner of his jaw, then his neck. Quentin shivered as the sensation made shivers chase up his spine. “My little king, my baby-papa . . .” 

“Oh God, El.” Quentin gasped laughter mixed with arousal. “Please don’t call me that!” 

“But you are,” Eliot crooned in his ear before he kissed the curve of the outer shell. Quentin shivered again. 

“You . . . you aren’t playing fair!” 

“Do I ever?” Eliot asked with a smile, and then he pulled back to stroke Quentin’s cheek. “And can you blame me? I thought I’d never have this again, Q. I thought I’d have to raise Sebastian with Margo, or worse, alone. I thought I’d have to get you full-time care and that I’d never hear your voice again, or feel your touch--” Tears came to his eyes and Quentin took both of his hands. 

“El. Don’t . . . I’m all right now. I’m not going anywhere, and neither is Margo. We’re all going to raise Sebastian, and he’s going to be as magnificent a king as his father one day.” 

“Fathers,” Eliot corrected, blinking away tears. “You may be the Moderately Socially Maladjusted, Q, but that’s what makes you special.” He slipped an arm around him. “Do you remember our first night together? Here, I mean?” 

“Uhm . . . yeah. You mean after I freed Alice from my cacodemon tattoo?” 

“Exactly.” Eliot’s hand strayed down Quentin’s lean back and began to trace slow circles around the stylized Q there. “Do you remember what you asked me?” 

“Yeah. I asked you to love me.” 

“That’s right,” Eliot nodded. “So let me ask the same of you now, Quentin.” He rested his forehead on Quentin’s shoulder. “Love me. Please, love me.” 

“El.” Quentin turned toward him, embraced him. “I do . . . I do love you, baby.” He pulled back and kissed him, cupping his face. Eliot gave a small moan and leaned into the kiss, his hands coming up to pet Quentin’s hair and stroke the back of his neck. The kiss deepened and Eliot parted his lips, offering himself up completely. Quentin’s tongue touched his briefly, then again, and Quentin pulled him down to the mattress. There were no more questions, no more doubt; they were fitting into each other’s edges as easily as they always had. Eliot rolled to one elbow and took control then, leaning down to sink his teeth into Quentin’s neck, sharply at first, and then gentler until he was nibbling the tender skin. Quentin’s hips bucked upward and he hissed with arousal. Eliot chuckled. 

“Like that, don’t you,” he breathed into Quentin’s ear, and the younger man squirmed. 

“Fucking tease!” He groaned, and Eliot painted his lover’s neck with his tongue until it was damp. Quentin raised his arms and Eliot slipped his fingers under the hem of his white tee, tugging it upwards until it slid off. Eliot tossed it aside and threw a leg over Quentin’s lean form, looking down at his bare chest as if he’d discovered the world’s grandest treasure. Quentin looked up at him, his dark eyes gleaming, the lids half closed. 

“God, look at you,” Eliot sighed. “You better buckle up, little king, because I am going to reclaim every inch of you.” He leaned over and kissed Quentin’s shoulders, worshipped his collarbones, the skin there lightly freckled, and then let his tongue stray down to a caramel-colored nipple. Quentin shuddered out a moan and Eliot shifted slightly to whisper in Quentin’s ear. “I’m going to suck this one while you play with the other.” 

Quentin nodded, swimming with the heady feel of foreplay. With Eliot, it was an art, and he excelled in the medium. He brought his right hand to his own nipple, flicking his fingers over it as Eliot closed his lips over its twin and sucked. The sensations streamed through his body and bottomed out at the base of his cock, causing it to twitch and flex. Eliot sucked, making small, pleased noises as he did so, his own cock stiffening to press into Quentin’s inner thigh. Quentin spread his legs and wrapped them around Eliot’s waist, locking his ankles at the small of Eliot’s back. Eliot pulled off Quentin’s erect nipple, coated it with saliva, then lapped at it until Quentin whimpered. 

“El please . . .” 

Eliot tipped his eyes up to Quentin’s and grinned around the peaked bud of flesh before giving it a final kiss and moving over to the other one. He nudged Quentin’s hand out of the way and caught his nipple gently between his teeth. Quentin writhed in response and Eliot began to scrape up and down, his head bobbing, his teeth teasing the flesh until he felt Quentin’s cock leak through the lightweight sleep pants he wore. He took pity on his husband then and blazed a trail through the fine coating of hair on Quentin’s pecs, then lower, until he reached the hem of the pants. Quentin raised his head, his cheeks flushed, the material at his groin tented and damp. Eliot pulled the hem down, his eyes intent, and then smiled as he revealed Quentin’s erection. 

“Well, hello!” He said with affection, and then kissed the tip. He licked his lips as he sampled Quentin’s nectar, then kissed his way down the underside. Quentin trembled and his fingers clenched around the bed’s duvet. 

“Fuck!” 

“Not quite yet, honeylove,” Eliot smiled as he nuzzled Quentin’s belly. It was still soft from his pregnancy but Eliot could sense the return of muscle tone there. “Like I told you, I’m going to love every inch of you.” 

“I’ll come if you blow me,” Quentin moaned, 

“Then come, and I’ll get you hard again. Don’t you know, Q, that getting you hard is my absolute favorite activity?” He breathed gently over the rigid flesh and then lowered his mouth down over it, taking care to cover his teeth. Quentin tensed. 

“Oh, El . . . El, fuck . . . yes, fuck, suck me . . .” he groaned, his inhibitions crumbling under Eliot’s ministrations. Everything else was becoming less important: the worry over how his body looked, the shame he felt that Eliot and Margo had seen him when he was as physically helpless as their tiny son. The pleasure was building, the halo spreading outward until it encompassed his entire body and all he knew was the feel of Eliot’s warm mouth. The sounds filled the room, adding to his arousal, and he let go of everything as his body released its tension in one massive contraction of pure sensation. He shuddered as his cock fountained and Eliot took it in, his hands stroking Quentin’s inner thighs. The pulses seemed to go on and on until Quentin’s head thumped back against his pillow and his ears registered the white noise of his own orgasm, like a flock of seabirds taking wing from a rainy beach. Aftershocks made nerves at the base of his cock hum and twitch. Eliot wiped a hand across his mouth and gave Quentin a pleased smile. 

“I told you I was gonna come if you did that,” Quentin groaned, and Eliot chuckled. 

“” That’s exactly why I did it! But I’m not done with you yet.” He held out his left hand and materialized a bottle of cherry-flavored lube into it. Quentin stared at it. 

“El . . . I--I don’t know,” he said, some of his inhibitions making a sudden second-act appearance. Eliot snapped the top up. 

“I do. I don’t want you to worry, Q . . . I know I’ve never done this for you before--” 

“More like I’ve never let you.” Guilt tinged his words. 

“Well, I’m not keeping score, babylove, and neither should you. But I want you to trust me. All right?” 

“I do trust you.” 

“Then get on all fours for me. It’s going to feel good . . . remember how we did it that first time, and you were scared, but then you let me take care of you? It’s going to be just like that--good! That’s good, Q,” Eliot nodded as Quentin turned over and got up on all fours. “Now relax.” He poured some of the lube out over his long fingers and began to slather it between Quentin’s asscheeks. The younger man gasped and tensed up, but only momentarily. Eliot waited and Quentin shivered and exhaled heavily, releasing that anxiety, and then spread him open. His tongue quested and Quentin made a sound of sheer surprise that ended in a whimper. Eliot patted his ass gently in reassurance and then continued, mixing gentle laps with firmer pressure until Quentin was twisting his hips and breathing in quick huffs, his cock already twitching as the pleasure worked it toward a second erection. Eliot’s cock was a hard shaft of flesh between his own thighs and he gave it a few tugs as his tongue worked. 

“El . . .” Quentin moaned after several more minutes. “El please, I can’t--” His hips rocked. “Just--please, put it in me!” 

Eliot grinned, pleased at his husband’s request, and pulled back to add a bit more lube. He gave Quentin’s left butt cheek a slap for good measure and Quentin yelped and looked over his shoulder. 

“Hey!” 

“Couldn’t resist. Such a tight little ass!” Eliot grinned. “And speaking of tight . . .” He took himself in hand and guided his erection to that place where Quentin gave and began to sink in. Quentin groaned, but there was nothing but arousal and approval in the tone. Eliot nodded and continued to slide, stroking Quentin’s back and shoulders. “You feel so good, my honeylove, so good,” he whispered, and then his testes were bumping against Quentin’s perineum. Quentin pressed back against him so Eliot began to move, his big hands gripping Quentin’s slim hips. Quentin gasped in his breaths and let them out in a series of sounds that Eliot found he liked immensely. Thaderos had forbade them any sex since Quentin’s sixth month of pregnancy, and almost four months of celibacy, Eliot knew he wasn’t going to last long. He sunk into Quentin’s tight heat again and again, taking him, reclaiming him, until Quentin began to tense beneath him. Eliot paused, pulled out, and used all his strength to bodily flip Quentin onto his back. He bounced, his dark eyes wide, and Eliot gripped his thighs to push them back until he could enter Quentin again. The smaller man gasped and his eyes closed in ecstasy as Eliot entered him in one swift stroke. 

“Open your eyes, Q,” Eliot said. “I want you to watch me come inside you.” 

Quentin obeyed, his pupils so enlarged with pleasure that only a faint ring of dark brown was visible. Eliot began to swing his hips again and Quentin moaned, reaching up to grip his forearms. Eliot nodded. “Gonna come, Q . . . fuck, gonna come so hard--” His words made Quentin clench around him and pleasure chased down his spine like a dynamite fuse until the charge went off in his groin and blossomed outward. Quentin cried out at the same time and they shared a moment of complete bliss as they reached climax together, their auras blending, tiny threads of ambient magic racing between them. When it faded, Eliot’s head dropped and he gulped in a few deep breaths. Quentin was spent and gasping beneath him, and as their eyes met, they both began to giggle in a dopamine-fueled release of emotion. Eliot pulled away gently and dropped down next to Quentin, gathering the giggling magician into his arms, kissing him until he quieted.

“If . . . they ever find a way to bottle that, big pharmaceutical is so fucked.” 

“So true!” Eliot nodded and stroked Quentin’s hair, playing with the artful streak in his hair--a mark of his husband’s incredible courage. The room grew quiet for a few moments and then Quentin spoke up. 

“Do you remember what Dobbfisher said this afternoon? About fisher birds that mate for life? And how we’re like that?” 

“Mmmhmm . . .” 

“Do you think we’ll make it?” 

“I do, Q.” Eliot pulled him close and kissed his forehead. “Because no matter what, we’re always going to find each other. In any universe, in any world. We belong together.” 

Quentin smiled and nestled into Eliot’s side. The taller man stroked his hair. “Did I tell you about the souvenir I was going to bring you?” 

“Uh uh.” 

“It was a peach pit.” 

“Oh? What happened to it?” Quentin asked, and Eliot grinned. 

“It all started in Fillory, over five thousand years ago . . .” 


	17. Epilogue

##  Epilogue

“Look, look! Papa waddlin!” 

Eliot glanced up from the document he was reading at the dining hall table as Sebastian pointed and giggled. At nearly four years of age, he was already full of ambient magic, as Dobbfisher had predicted. Quentin gave their son a shrewd look as he approached, his belly swaying, full of seven months’ worth of healthy baby girl. 

“You’d waddle too, small fry!” He said, but a smile took the edge from the words. Margo looked up from her cup of tea. 

“How are you feeling, Q?” She asked, and Quentin sat down. Knowing his papa had no lap at this point, Sebastian climbed up into Margo’s instead. She stroked the boy’s thick black curls. 

“Thaderos says I’m fine . . . I don’t need bed rest.” 

“Good. The dining hall floor needs mopping,” Eliot grinned. Quentin picked up a bread roll and threatened to hurl it as his husband’s head. Sebastian giggled and pulled a covered cup of juice across the table and into his hand. Margo shook her head. 

“More ambient magic than you can shake the Elder Wand at, and telekinesis to boot!” 

“Knee-sis!” Sebastian nodded and gulped down the juice. 

“What are you reading, El?” Quentin asked, and Eliot smiled. 

“It’s a treaty proposition. The unicorns want to meet with us to discuss ‘their deep regret regarding their worship of the goddess Amber.’ And it’s signed by Arrgus and his daughter, Ari.” 

“It only took them almost five years to finally fu--uhhm, flipping come around!” Margo said, and Quentin lifted a shoulder. 

“Changing your entire belief system can’t be an easy thing, Margo.” 

“Yeah well . . . I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to forgive them. They almost got us all killed because they believed their creator was wronged.” 

“Well, they’re coming to see us this afternoon, so I hope you can smile and make nice.” 

“I’ll make nice. I can’t promise a smile.” 

Eliot glanced over at Quentin and gave him a wink. 

“Speaking of not changing easily!” 

“Hey, I don’t recall promising!” Margo protested. 

“In any case, we’d better finish breakfast--time marches on,” Eliot said as he glanced at his son, beautiful and magical like them, at Margo, who completed him in ways he couldn’t explain, and Quentin--his flawed, brave, not-so-neurotypical soul mate, the other half of his heart. 

“And our kingdom awaits.” 

##  THE END 


End file.
